


Something more than good enough

by mornmeril



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Pre-Canon, accountant!Phil, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson had spent the better part of his life trying to convince himself that he wasn't bored with it, that he wasn't lonely and that everything had turned out the way he'd always imagined it would. But when one night a stranger suddenly appears in his bedroom - armed with a bow and arrows no less - Phil is forced to revise his assessment of his life. He's drawn into Agent Barton's orbit and ends up following him across the globe as both Barton's agency and some other 'bad guys' try to hunt them down.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Who are you?” Phil asked, his mind still reeling from the unexpected appearance. “And how did you get in here?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The stranger’s sharp eyes shifted away and it felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from Phil’s shoulders as his focus was diverted.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“The window,” his voice was smooth and low, as if he was used to acting invisible and wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible. “You shouldn’t leave it open.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Phil’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily. “On the off chance that someone will climb through it?” he asked incredulously. “We are on the twenty-third floor.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> **General Note:** This was written for the [marvel_bang](http://marvel-bang.livejournal.com) over at LiveJournal, so go have a look at the other amazing stories and art.
> 
> The art for this story was done by the amazing and talented [lennymechs](http://lennymechs.livejournal.com) \- who also deserves all the credit for the title! - and the masterpost can be found [here](http://lennyfics.livejournal.com/5560.html), so pls go and leave some love over there as well.
> 
> **A/N:** Okay, so first of all I wanted to thank my two betas and my amazing artist for doing such a brilliant job - last but not least for putting up with my slowness and being supportive and great all around. Also a big thank you to the [marvel_bang](http://marvel-bang.livejournal.com) mods for putting this together and being absolutely fantastic and handling everything with so much competence and dedication.
> 
> **A brief note as to the ‘verse/timeline this story is set in:**  
>  This is a canon!AU, so although there are some major differences, the world is more or less the same as in the movieverse and even though things happen differently, the outcome (Iron Man, the Avengers coming together, etc) is still implied. I know that in the movieverse Tony doesn’t start dealing in anything but weapons until after Afghanistan, but in this ‘verse Stark Tech is already being produced and sold. As this story is effectively set slightly in the past, the Tech isn’t as flashy as in the Avengers movie, but still probably slightly more advanced than it was in our world at that point. As to Clint, he is 24 in this ‘verse and I have freestyled his past a little, as you will see, but nothing too major I think.
> 
> I have never actually been to the US, so everything I mention I have researched. Please forgive any inaccuracies. Also, I’m a user of British English and I did my best (combined with the effort of my betas who are both American) to eradicate any British-isms - if there’s still any left, I’m sorry and feel free to point them out to me. I still use British spelling and punctuation, though.
> 
> For detailed notes/further explanations/reference links please look at the End Notes of Part 3.
> 
> **ETA:** I've now embedded [lennymechs'](http://lennymechs.livejournal.com) art into the story itself. Please don't forget to head over to the [masterpost](http://lennyfics.livejournal.com/5560.html) and leave some love!

****

**Part 1**

_His shoulder slammed into the wall, sending a knife-sharp pain through his bones. Suppressing a wince, he braced himself against the cold concrete and dared to glance around the corner. Something red flashed on the opposite rooftop, but was gone just as suddenly and he quickly retreated when another round of gunfire hit his hiding-place. Cursing under his breath, he tightened his hold on his bow, fingers tingling unpleasantly from shooting it repeatedly without his customary arm- and finger guards._

_Inhaling a deep lungful of stale New York air, he tensed the muscles in his legs before taking off at a run. Bullets followed him and he hardly had the time to prepare himself for the leap, before he was already in the air. He landed hard, breath knocked from his lungs even as he rolled with it, neatly ducking behind the closest cover._

_He inspected his knuckles, scowling at the torn skin there, before petting his breast pocket. Thankfully, the small flash drive seemed to be unharmed and he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Scanning his surroundings once more, he could see no sign of his partner, only several dark shapes moving in on him from the shadows._

_Turning sharp eyes away from them, he quickly considered his options. He needed cover, and he needed it fast. Just when he thought he had to take another leap, he saw a faint movement in the corner of his eyes._

_A curtain flapping gently in the almost non-existent breeze of the night._

_A bullet hit the concrete but an inch from his foot and he made the decision mostly out of necessity than anything else. Darting around his hiding place, he glanced at the shapes, before nocking his last explosive arrow and firing it into the opposite direction. As predicted, the shapes stopped, distracted._

_The explosion was big enough to force the other men to duck and he took the opportunity to press the button on his bow and change arrowheads. He nocked and released, hardly giving the arrow enough time to lodge itself into the wall, before swinging the small distance to the open window and sliding into the room._

_Outside, the smoke from the small explosion had yet to dissipate and he quickly retrieved his arrow from above the window before flattening himself against the wall. It was only then that he saw the thin strip of light beneath one of the doors and heard the rushing of a shower. He was not alone._

*

Phil often asked himself if, in retrospect, there had been some kind of sign, anything at all, that could have warned him before everything turned upside down. Until that day, his life had been just the way he had always expected it to be. He had worked hard to leave his parents’ farm, had gotten a scholarship for university and then started doing the job he had always planned to do.

His sister called almost daily to check up on him, his parents every week, and during the holidays he took time to visit his childhood home where all of his family got together over food, mostly too much drink and boring stories about their boring lives. Phil didn't mind that his life was just as boring, that he usually had even less to talk about than everyone else, because he had no partner, no children - it was just himself and his work. 

Mostly, he liked it that way. And the things he didn't like he simply brushed off, too much in the habit to be satisfied with what he had - something that had been ingrained into him all his life. But lately it seemed as though he felt tired more often, as though he dreaded picking up the phone and listening to his sister and mother trying to give him advice. Unwanted advice on how to live his life and how to find the perfect partner to settle down with and raise a family with. At thirty-five he was expected to be married by now and Phil was constantly grateful that his sister had already fulfilled her duty of providing grandchildren, otherwise his mother would have been even more insufferable about it.

It wasn't like Phil didn't want to have someone in his life, he simply hadn't met anyone that he could imagine sharing his life with. He was never very interested in going out and most of the people he met thought him too boring for more than a tumble between the sheets, so Phil had simply stopped looking and told himself that he was happy the way he was, even though sometimes, when he was lying alone at night in a bed too big for just himself, it was a little hard to make himself believe it.

*

The alarm clock tore Phil from sleep, loud enough to make it feel as though the sound was resounding within the walls of his own head. His eyes were still heavy, feeling gritty from having stared at a computer screen for hours on end, and the shrill beeping continued for another agonising minute until Phil scrambled enough awareness together to throw an arm out to silence it. Covering his face, Phil rubbed at it in the hope of chasing some of the drowsiness away, silently promising himself that he would stop staying up most of the night - just like he did every morning. 

Leaving his warm sheets in favour of a shower cold enough to shock wakefulness into his body, Phil followed this up with two cups of bitter coffee, while half-heartedly glancing over this morning’s newspaper without actually taking in what he was reading. Considerably more alert then before, he trudged into his bedroom to retrieve a suit from the sea of black and white that was his closet and took the time to check his computer on the progress of last night’s hacking while tightening his tie. He gave himself a once-over in the hallway-mirror, smoothed down his hair and grabbed his briefcase from where he had neatly placed it the evening before.

Mindful not to wrinkle his suit, Phil slid into the driver's seat of his car and turned on the radio. The morning traffic was atrocious, even though it was only just past seven, and Phil absently scrolled through his messages as he hummed along to the music. His office was just far enough away that walking would’ve taken him longer than sitting through the traffic jams and Phil had always hated the subway, unwilling to let himself be squashed between sweaty strangers who were all shouting into their cell phones.

By the time he reached the office, Phil was already answering emails from his starkPhone and, as every morning, his secretary was waiting for him, bouncing on the tip of her toes with anxiety.

“Mr Coulson,” she said, breathless and all but launching herself at him as soon as she caught sight of him leaving the elevator. “Mr Coulson, Smith is having an issue with the invoice that we sent Hammer Industries yesterday. He says that the sum doesn't add up and that they phoned and queried the order.”

Phil suppressed a sigh and accepted the stack of papers she thrust into his hands. Lucy was an amazing girl and Phil appreciated her greatly, her perfectionism paired with the determination to get everything done at the same time often reminding her of Phil himself. Underestimating Lucy was a common mistake people made, her small, slender build, not to mention her age and her unusual, but pretty features often blinding people. But she wouldn’t be where she was now, the secretary to the chief accountant of Roxxon, if she didn’t know her job. She had, after all, finished her degree at break-neck speed and moved all the way from Britain to New York, where she had neither family nor friends. Even for Phil, who had moved together with his best friend, it had been a major change and he hadn’t even left the country.

Despite her competency, Phil often considered giving her some time off simply to relax a little, or maybe force her to visit some yoga classes. Her nervous energy and relentless drive sometimes drove even Phil to exasperation, a feat usually only reserved for his mother and sister.

“I'll look it over,” he assured her, nodding his thanks as she opened the door to his office for him. “Tell Smith to come see me when he's done with Hammer. Has Carlton Co. called back yet? I need those invoices and tell Gordon down at transport that he still hasn't forwarded me the last gas bills – I need them by lunchtime at the latest.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy said dutifully, radiating stressful energy and even making the few strands that had escaped her tight bun float about her head with static. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you, Lucy.” Phil gave her a placid smile, before turning his attention to the pile in front of him, not looking up as he heard Lucy fly from his office.

*

Half an hour before he was due for his lunch break, his cell phone gave off the generic ringtone it had come with as the default setting, rattling slightly next to him as the vibrate function set in. Without looking away from his work, Phil picked it up and blindly swiped his finger across the screen.

“Coulson.”

“Hi Phil,” came the familiar voice from the other end. “Are you free for lunch? I might actually manage to have a break today.”

Phil smiled slightly. “Is Stark letting you out of his clutches long enough for you to actually eat?”

Although he couldn't see her, Phil practically felt the rolling of her eyes. “Please, as if Tony could stop me. He's not even in yet, I doubt he'll show up at all. He’s gone all secretive lately, I hope it’s just another illicit affair. If it’s anything like six months ago, I’m quitting. It’s enough waiting for Stane to rip him a new one and me having to listen to him whine again, I hardly need another PR catastrophe on top of that.”

Phil chuckled. Personally, he thought Stark was an asshole, a genius, but an asshole nevertheless. According to Pepper, however, as much as she complained about him, he was mostly alright once you learned to look past his ego. Phil didn't know about that, but then again, he'd only ever seen the man once in person and hadn't exchanged more than a greeting with him, so Phil wasn't necessarily the best judge of his character.

Stane, however, was an entirely different story. Tony might be an asshole, but at least he was an honest one. Stane was one of those smiling types that were ready to plunge a knife into your back as soon as your attention was elsewhere. Pepper did well to be careful around him and, knowing her, Phil was sure that she already had several back-up plans ready should push come to shove.

“I just have to finish this fuck-up here and then I'm free,” Phil said, changing something in the table on his computer-screen one-handed.

“Great,” Pepper said. “I'll come pick you up in, say, twenty minutes?”

“See you, then.”

*

Pepper arrived on the dot, clad in her usual business outfit and walking on heels she could use to murder someone. She smiled disarmingly at Lucy, which only helped in flustering her further.

Phil shook his head as he joined Pepper at the elevator. “You're cruel.”

Pepper flashed him the same smile, but Phil had long since gotten used to it. “Poor thing needs to relax a little.”

“Are you offering?” Phil asked, raising an eyebrow just as the elevator tinged, the doors sliding open for them to enter. “I didn’t think she was your type.”

“She isn’t. But she’s very sweet,” Pepper said and sighed. “Too sweet.”

Phil eyed her from the side, fighting a smile. “It’d probably be a nice change to your usual assholes.”

Pepper’s elbow found his ribs with a well-aimed thrust perfected over the years. “Since when are you the expert in relationship advice? Last time I checked, you’re the one wallowing around waiting for Mr Right to personally come knock at your door,” Pepper turned to look at him, humour suddenly gone. “Seriously, Phil, when was the last time you went out? And I mean _out_ , not to work or meeting me for lunch, that doesn’t count.”

Phil shrugged, more than familiar with that particular tirade. He was only grateful that his mother and sister couldn’t monitor him as closely as Pepper, seeing as they were at least in another state.

“I have no interest in going out. I’m boring enough on my own, I don’t need anyone else to help with that.”

Pepper sighed just as the elevator came to a halt, linking their arms as they stepped out. “You’re not boring, Phil, and if you’d let people close enough to actually get to know you then they’d realise that as well.”

Phil shook his head. He doubted that very much, but he knew there was no point in arguing with his best friend. “Thank you, Pepper,” he said instead, before steering the conversation away from himself again. “So, what happened to that guy you were dating? Mick?”

Pepper snorted. “Please, the only thing he was interested in was his dick. You think you’re boring? You should’ve tried having a conversation with him.”

Phil suppressed a chuckle and patted her hand. “You know if things were different, I would’ve married you long ago.”

Pepper laughed and bumped shoulders with him. “Your mum would’ve been thrilled. She always expected it, after all.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t say it, but I know that she’s just waiting for me to tell her that coming out was all a big joke and that I want to marry some nice girl after all.”

“If you’d finally emerge from your computer screen enough to actually meet someone, I’m sure she’d get over that notion,” Pepper said, squeezing his arm. “She just wants you to be happy. Like all of us.”

“I am happy.”

Pepper gave him a look that clearly spelled out ‘bullshit’, but wisely remained silent.

Phil thought it best to change the subject, instead asking Pepper about her work and in how many ways Stark was keeping her busy. Despite her easy demeanour, Phil could see the dark shadows under her eyes and the strain around her mouth. Whatever Stark was up to, it was bothering Pepper. She was concerned and Phil hoped for her sake that it wasn’t anything like six months ago. Or worse.

*

When Phil came home that evening he was absolutely done in. He had stayed almost an hour late to iron out the clusterfuck that Smith had managed to make of yesterday’s invoice and Gordon hadn’t mailed him the bills until the late afternoon. Poor Lucy had been flittering around the office until Phil had kicked her out half an hour before he himself could finally leave. The girl needed something other than work and stress in her life.

Not bothering to switch on a light, Phil stripped out of his suit and decided on another shower. The last traces of summer still hadn’t left the city and Phil felt as though the whole stink of New York was clinging to him, making his skin feel sticky and disgusting.

Squinting against the sudden brightness of the bathroom lights, Phil stumbled into the shower and turned the faucet with a tired twist of his wrist. The tiles were cold against his back, soothing the aching in his spine, and he simply let the water cascade down on him for several moments. He never wanted to move again.

Beyond the rushing of water in his ears, Phil heard a booming sound somewhere on the street and rolled his eyes. It was the third time this week that the youths from around the block were bored enough to plant some firecrackers into the bins, littering the street with rubbish and filling the air with the stench of burned plastic. Phil had no idea what was so hilarious about watching waste explode and was grateful that it had to do little with his age and rather more to do with his common sense.

Sighing, Phil forced himself to move and by the time he stepped out of the shower, he at least felt human again. Wrapping one of the huge fluffy towels that his sister had given him for Christmas around his waist, Phil grabbed a smaller one to rub over his face and hair as he stepped out into his bedroom. Blindly, he reached for the light-switch by the bed, his fingers brushing the plastic-

Vice-like fingers snapped around his wrist, yanking at his arm and expertly curving it to trap it behind him, sending a painful jolt through his muscles. His back crashed against whoever was standing behind him and he felt hot breath against the side of his face right before a warm palm covered his mouth to muffle Phil’s inelegant noise of surprise and pain.

One hot burst of breath, two, then the man at his back relaxed the slightest fraction.

“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured close to Phil’s ear and, as if to prove his point, his grip loosened to ease the strain on Phil’s muscles. “But I need you to stay quiet. Alright?”

Phil inhaled through his nose, doing his best not to fight the hold and nodded against the other man’s hand. The pressure on his mouth eased before disappearing completely, along with the hands holding him in place. Slowly, so as not to prompt another attack, Phil turned to face his assailant.

The man had taken a step away from him, but even so, Phil could see that he was about an inch taller than Phil himself, not a hard feat as Phil was quite short. It was hard to make out the other man’s features in the dim light, the darkness of his bedroom only broken by the street light streaming in from outside. Phil could just about make out spiky hair and broad shoulders. Phil felt rather than saw the other’s gaze, eyes sharp even in this limited light.

“Who are you?” Phil asked, his mind still reeling from the unexpected appearance. “And how did you get in here?”

The stranger’s sharp eyes shifted away and it felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from Phil’s shoulders as his focus was diverted. 

“The window,” his voice was smooth and low, as if he was used to acting invisible and wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible. “You shouldn’t leave it open.”

Phil’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily. “On the off chance that someone will climb through it?” he asked incredulously. “We are on the twenty-third floor.”

The broad shoulders lifted in a shrug and Phil watched as the stranger silently crossed the room and flattened himself against the wall next to the open window. He briefly glanced outside, before retreating again. Even in his bedroom the air held the sharp edge of smoke. It was only then that Phil finally noticed what the other man was carrying.

“Is that a bow?” It was only the years he had spent on cultivating his calm that kept Phil from gaping stupidly at the archaic weapon, his eyes tracing the bow before taking in the quiver of arrows strapped to the other man’s back. It was almost empty.

“Look, I know this must be weird,” the stranger said, his eyes sweeping the room once more as if on reflex, before coming to rest on Phil once more.

“I’m not sure ‘weird’s the word I would have chosen to describe this situation.”

Phil couldn’t be sure, the room still more dark than light, but he thought he saw a twitch at the corner of the other man’s lips. “You know, you’re taking this awfully well,” he said, slinging his bow over his back and giving Phil a better view of the strange suit he was wearing. “I thought I’d have to knock you out or something, to keep you from screaming and trying to call the cops.”

“As I’m currently in nothing but a towel and both my cell and landline are in the other room, I don’t think I’d be very successful,” Phil said, his hands reflexively tightening the towel around his waist. “And I’d prefer to stay conscious, if you don’t mind.”

Now the twitch was definitely there. “Clever,” the stranger said, before reaching up to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that looked almost sheepish. “Look, I’m sorry for all this, but there really was no other way. I only need to stay for a few hours, just until it’s blown over a bit and I can sneak back out. I promise I’ll be out of your hair by morning and you’ll never see me again.”

Phil studied him for a moment, considering his options. The stranger seemed genuine and, except the initial scramble, hadn’t tried to hurt or restrain him. Phil thought about denying him, about finding some way to call the police or fleeing his apartment, but he doubted he would get very far with either of those. There was a quiet danger to the guy that Phil didn’t feel like exploring for himself and despite his words, Phil doubted he had much choice in the matter.

Even so, something about the other man struck a cord with Phil. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was this feeling in his gut that seemed to insist that it was okay to trust the stranger, not to mention the quiet, little niggling sensation of excitement that was relentlessly spreading through Phil’s chest, making his heart beat faster and spiking the inherent curiosity that ran within his entire family, despite Phil’s best efforts of suffocating it each time it reared its head.

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

The stranger sighed, looking suddenly exhausted, his shoulders slumping the barest fraction. “I’m Agent Barton.”

“Agent?” Phil frowned. “As in, FBI?”

“Something like that,” Barton shrugged once more, the dark ends of the arrows behind him following the motion. “But they’re not really fond of me at the moment, so…”

“So you climbed through my window.”

Barton laughed, quiet and sudden as if Phil had startled it out of him. “Yeah,” he grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. “That.”

Phil looked down at his still mostly naked form, before nodding towards his wardrobe. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d quite like to put some clothes on.”

Barton’s sharp gaze followed his gesture and it almost looked as though he was ex-raying the closet, before he looked away and nodded. “Right, sure. I’ll just…go to the living room?”

Phil pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Straight out and through the hall, first door to the left. I’ll be right out.”

When the door had quietly closed behind Barton, Phil took a deep breath and did his best to centre himself. He wasn’t sure if this was what he’d meant when he’d wished for his life to be less boring.

*

Phil found Barton sprawled out on his couch, his bow and quiver within easy reach next to him. He had switched on the lights and it was the first time Phil actually got a good look at him. He was much younger than Phil had initially thought, no older than twenty-six, and, Phil tried not to stare too much, quite devastatingly handsome.

Clearing his throat, Phil looked away hastily and did his best to look casual as he strode past him into his open kitchen. “So, are you hungry?”

Barton’s heavy stare landed on his back and as Phil got no reply, he was forced to look back over his shoulder. The blue-grey of Barton’s eyes matched the sharpness of his gaze and Phil felt as though something was physically drilling into his chest.

“I invade your home, force you to let me stay and you offer me food?”

Phil turned back to his perusal of the contents of his cupboard and felt his shoulders lifting into a shrug. “Might as well eat while you’re here,” he told the pack of pasta in front of his nose. “You might not have a lot of chances once you continue running.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a strange guy?”

“All the time,” Phil said almost absentmindedly as he put together the ingredients for an easy pasta-dish. “That, and boring, as my mother keeps reminding me.”

“Boring?” Barton sounded slightly incredulous. “I really doubt that. More like freakishly calm.”

Phil smiled slightly, despite himself, and started cutting up an onion. “There’s that,” he conceded. “I think it’s the only reason my boss promoted me.”

Phil had no idea why he had said it, no idea why he was talking to Barton at all, but the words seemed to simply flow out of him without thought. It was a strange feeling. Usually people had to drag him into conversations, especially strangers.

“What d’you do, then?” Barton asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Phil poured some oil into a pan and tossed the onions in after it. “I’m an accountant.”

“That is frighteningly fitting,” Barton commented drily.

Phil felt the corners of his mouth tugging upwards slightly and glanced over his shoulder at the other man. Barton was watching him, his body turned towards him on the couch and his gaze as heavy as ever. Phil took the opportunity to let his own gaze sweep the room, and, as he had suspected, finding the cable that connected his landline missing. He didn’t bother checking for his briefcase, already certain that his cell would be gone as well. Barton was no idiot.

Turning his attention back to the onions now sizzling in the pan, he gave them a stir. There was nothing he could do about the situation right now, he might as well concentrate on feeding them.

After that, they stopped talking for a while and Phil wondered what kind of weirdo it made him that it took an agent armed with an archaic weapon who had broken into his home to make him feel comfortable being in someone’s presence. Maybe it was the fact that Barton didn’t actually expect him to talk, or maybe it was that he actually seemed interested in what Phil had to say. Either way it was the most comfortable he had been in a long time.

By the time Phil set a plate of spaghetti in front of Barton, the other man looked wiped out and, for the first time since Phil had seen them, his sharp blue-grey eyes had lost some of their focus. Barton inhaled rather than ate his food and looked ready to fall asleep at the table after he had finished. From close up, Barton looked even younger and Phil could see the dust on his dark suit and more than a few scratches along his bare arms and the back of his hands.

Phil chose not to comment on any of it, simply took the dishes back to the kitchen before handing Barton a blanket and leaving him to it. He decided that if Barton wasn’t really an agent, but rather some criminal than there was hardly anything interesting for him to take. The only things Phil cared about were his computer, his phone and his vintage Captain America trading cards - and they - minus the phone - were all in his briefcase which he had taken with him to the bedroom. Everything else was replaceable or unimportant, so if Barton wanted to empty his flat while Phil slept, then he wouldn’t cry bitter tears over it tomorrow. If Barton had wanted to harm him, he would have done it already and if the state he was in was anything to go by, Phil very much doubted that Barton would do much else other than pass out on his couch.

Feeling utterly spent himself, Phil collapsed into bed, trying his best to empty his mind and telling himself that everything could wait until tomorrow morning when he was at least rested enough to form proper thoughts.

*

When Phil stumbled from his bed the next morning and to the kitchen, he almost did a double-take when he found Barton still asleep on his couch. Mind heavy with sleep, it took Phil a moment to remember why there was a strange man lying in his living room.

Barton looked pale in the faint morning light and a deep frown was carved into his forehead, telling Phil that his sleep wasn’t necessarily the most restful.  

Deciding against waking him, Phil quietly turned on the coffee machine and walked back the way he came in order to take a morning-shower. He dressed and by the time he emerged again, the red light on his coffee machine had turned green and he took two cups from the closest kitchen-cupboard.

As he’d predicted, Barton jerked awake when the coffee machine started and Phil fought the urge to press a hand to his shoulder to soothe him.

“Good morning,” he said instead.

Barton looked at him with wide eyes that were already sharp and clear from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” Phil took the now full cup from the coffee machine and placed the second one underneath the spout. “I need to leave for work in fifteen minutes.”

“Shit,” Barton cursed under his breath, jumping from the couch and reaching for his discarded quiver and bow.

“Late?” Phil guessed, watching as Barton strapped the quiver to his back and slung the bow over his shoulders with quick, practiced moves.

“Yeah,” despite his words, Barton accepted the mug that Phil handed him, hastily gulping down the contents and no doubt scalding his tongue, before putting the mug aside and rushing to the nearest window.

Just like yesterday, Phil watched as Barton flattened himself to the wall and carefully glanced outside. “Motherfucker,” Barton breathed out harshly.

Phil lowered his own mug, his fingers tightening around the still warm porcelain as a slow sense of dread filled him. “What is it?”

“They’re here.” Barton’s voice was tight and his frown deepened with something Phil thought might be worry.

“Who?”

“The bad guys,” Barton reached for his bow, strong fingers curling around it in a secure grasp, and his eyes never leaving whatever he was seeing through the window. “Okay, look, here’s what we’ll do. You’ll leave as you always do, act normal, go to work. They haven’t figured out where I am exactly, or they would’ve already come knocking on your door, so you should be alright. I’ll try and divert their attention when I leave.”

“I’ll go get my briefcase,” Phil said smoothly, already walking from the room.

His hand had only just closed around the handle of his briefcase, when suddenly his bedroom window shattered. Phil ducked on reflex, his free arm shooting up to cover his face, but thankfully whatever had smashed the window wasn’t very big. 

“What-” Barton, who had more or less materialised at his side, cut himself off abruptly and Phil immediately knew that that was a bad sign. Lowering his arm, he only had enough time to get a glimpse of light catching on metal, before Barton’s hand grabbed his arm non-too gently and hauled him to his feet.

“ _Fuck_! Move, _move._ ”

Phil didn’t protest as Barton dragged him from the room, his feet operating mostly on instinct alone. They burst from his apartment, Phil’s mind reeling with too much input and his fingers cramped and stiff from his death-grip on his briefcase. Barton dragged him closer and Phil only realised that he was shielding him when the explosion already rocked the floor, sending pieces of furniture and wall flying at them from behind.

The sharp smell of smoke made Phil’s nose burn as he inhaled, his ears ringing with the sound of the blast still in his ears. But he only got a passing glimpse at his destroyed apartment, before Barton was already dragging him along again. Doors were flying open left and right, worried and confused neighbours sticking their heads out to see what was going on and the fire alarm had been brought to life by the lingering smoke still hanging in the air, the sprinklers spraying them with water as Barton rushed them towards the emergency exit.

People were shouting and Phil thought he might’ve heard his name at some point, but they didn’t stop, all but falling through the emergency door at the end of the corridor. Phil picked up his pace, his heart hammering almost painfully in his chest as he tried his best to keep up with Barton, who was practically leaping down the stairs.

The fresh morning air outside was a relief to Phil’s burning nose and lungs even as he coughed harshly, almost doubling over with the force. A shot rang out, missing his leg by a few inches. Barton tugged him to the side and behind a nearby car. Phil forced himself to even his breathing, his chest aching with the effort.

“Stay down,” Barton told him, crouching next to Phil even as his hand shot out to snatch an arrow from his quiver and nocking it quicker than Phil’s eyes could follow.

Smoothly pushing to his feet, Barton drew and released, another arrow already in his hand before the string had even snapped back properly. Phil heard a cry of pain, no doubt where Barton had hit his mark, and several voices were shouting and cursing at each other, accompanied by the shrill sound of sirens in the distance.

The bow sang again, before another shot rang out, forcing Barton back into a crouch. Swinging the bow over his shoulder, Barton drew something from one of his many pockets and fiddled with the car door, only to open it a moment later.

“Get in,” he ordered, even as he ripped a plastic panel from its hinges and dragged several wires from its insides. “And keep your head down.”

Another shot rang out, shattering one of the back windows of the car, and making Phil jump and duck his head. The motor roared to life and Barton shot up to shoot another arrow while Phil threw himself into the car and scrambled onto the passenger seat. Barton slid in next to him, throwing his bow onto Phil’s lap and stepping down onto the gas before even having closed the door behind him.

They tore out of the parking space at breakneck speed, barely avoiding collision with a taxi. Another round of shots hit the back of the car, shattering the rear window in a shower of glass and making them both sink deeper into their seats.

Phil clutched his briefcase to his chest, one of his hands curling around the slim curve of the bow. His shoulder hit the side of the car forcefully, knocking the breath from Phil’s lungs even as his arms came up to brace himself as best as he could against further impact.

Barton manoeuvred the car like a demon, swerving around a few cars waiting at a red light and taking a short-cut by driving over the corner of the side-walk, yanking the steering wheel around as the car slid around the corner with screeching tires. 

Police sirens wailed in the distance, but Phil thought he could hear them getting louder as they were closing in on them. Phil thought about his mother, feeling slightly hysterical as he pictured her face when the police told her that her son had been arrested for aiding an agent slash criminal. That he had been found in a stolen car that now resembled swiss cheese from the amount of holes some other criminals had shot into it.

They sped down a less populated street, before cutting into a side-alley. Barton hit the break hard enough to force Phil forward in his seat, clutching both the bow and his briefcase tighter against himself.

“Out,” Barton barked, already leaping from the car and yanking the bow from Phil’s hands in order to sling it over his back.

He grabbed Phil’s arm and tugged him along, forcing him into a sprint. They skidded around the corner of the alley at the opposite side from where they had entered it and passed some trashcans, before Barton tore open a door on their right and gently pushed Phil inside before slipping in behind him and slamming what sounded like a bolt into place.

For several moments the only thing was the sound of their heavy breathing. Phil leaned back against the door feeling the bolt digging into his back and trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. Adrenaline was still rushing through his system, making him feel on edge and ready to run again at the smallest sign and, for the first time in what must have been ever, Phil felt utterly, truly alive.

Barton was quick to recover, his breathing already back to normal as he took a step away from the door and peered up the small, rickety stairs that led to god-only-knew-where. It was dark and Phil felt a slight sense of deja-vu as he looked at Barton’s profile in the dim light.

“Who are these people?” Phil asked quietly, voice hoarse from smoke and exertion, choosing one of the two questions burning on his tongue. He figured that he would find out soon enough where they were.

“As I said, the bad guys,” Barton said as he set one booted foot at the bottom step and carefully put his weight on it. “I have something they want.”

“Yes,” Phil said drily, watching as Barton started to climb the stairs and reached out to grasp the bannister and follow. “I thought as much.”

The stairs led to the small, but mostly clean, kitchen of a restaurant. It was deserted, the chairs in the main room all still up-side-down on the tables. There was a lingering smell of tomato-sauce and pizza in the air and Phil could safely guess from this, and the tacky decor, what kind of establishment it was.

“My friend Angelo owns this place,” Barton supplied, probably having read the question on Phil’s face. “I always have some essentials stored away here, for an emergency. Turns out that was a good idea.”

Walking over to one of the cupboards at the back of the kitchen, Barton opened it and lifted first a small duffle bag and then a guitar case out. He opened the guitar-case, lifted the slightly worn guitar out and felt around the bottom for a moment, before there was a quiet snapping sound, and Barton tugged the bottom out to reveal another space beneath. He deftly collapsed his bow and unstrapped the quiver from his back before tucking everything inside the case and snapping the bottom back in place.

“Is there anyone you could call?” Barton asked, putting the guitar back in its case before closing it. “Somewhere you can stay?”

Phil thought of his sister, but immediately pushed that idea aside. He couldn’t drag her into this. That left only one person.

“My best friend,” he said, thinking of Pepper’s huge apartment, complete with a security guard at the entrance to the building. “She lives on the Upper East Side, Carnegie Hill.”

Barton’s eyebrows shot up. “Talk about friends in high places.”

Phil shrugged. “We’ve known each other since university.”

Barton sighed, one of his hands back to rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I’m really sorry about all of this,” he said quietly, avoiding Phil’s eyes and looking as uncomfortable as Phil had ever seen him up to now. “As soon as this clusterfuck has been cleared up, we’ll reimburse you in full, I promise. Here.”

Barton reached into his back pocket and produced Phil’s cell, the way he held it out to Phil almost like a peace-offering. Phil took it with a nod and unlocked it with a few gestures of his fingertips, before typing in his code and watching the lock-screen give way to his home-screen.

He ignored the 50 new messages in his work-inbox and instead opened a blank email, quickly firing off a notice to Lucy that he wouldn’t be able to make it to the office today. He had more than enough holiday saved up as it was and would be able to catch up with work at Pepper’s.

Out of the corner of Phil’s eyes, he saw Barton chucking his suit and sliding into worn jeans and a t-shirt. Phil did his best to ignore Barton’s firm muscles and naked skin, instead concentrating on switching from his email to his SMS client and quickly typing out a text to Pepper.

When Phil looked up again, Barton was fully dressed and looked frighteningly ordinary in his new clothes. He had washed his hands and face, clearing away the last traces of dust and blood, and looked for all the world like a street-musician with his small duffle bag and guitar-case.

Looking down at himself, Phil took a moment to brush himself off as well, before his gaze was drawn back to Barton and how ridiculously young and normal he looked right then.

*

They excited the restaurant the same way they had entered it and Phil pointedly looked at his phone as Barton hot-wired another car. Phil wondered whether he would soon wake up in his bed and discover that all of this had merely been a crazy dream. He wasn’t sure what he’d prefer, a fact that made him question his sanity once again.

Thankfully, the ride to Pepper’s apartment was a lot less action filled and as steely as his nerves were, Phil wasn’t sure his heart could take another round of gunfire so close to the first one. Barton was silent, his eyes darting around and repeatedly scanning the area and driving strictly at speed limit, turning their stolen car into just another one on the road on a New York morning.

When they finally reached Pepper’s apartment block, Phil almost couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Once he stepped out of this car, his life would be back to normal. He would be stuck in his same old routines, going to work every day, leaving late and coming home to nothing but silence - even if it would be to a new apartment apparently. The prospect of living with Pepper for a while was actually very appealing, at least he would have someone to share his meals and watch atrocious TV in the evenings with.

Barton put the car into park and turned slightly in his seat to look at him. “So, sorry again for dragging you into this.”

Phil shrugged, unsure what to say to that. He doubted that telling Barton that he had kind of enjoyed being shot at would be the appropriate response. “I didn’t much like my apartment, anyway.”

Barton barked out a surprised laugh, shaking his head as Phil tried his best not to stare at his smiling lips. “You’re something else.”

Phil couldn’t help the amusement fighting to surface and quickly ducked his head to hide his stupid smile. “Well, I hope you’ll succeed with whatever you’re trying to do,” he said, reaching for the door-handle. “Take care of yourself, Agent Barton. I’m sure your agency would like to have you back once that misunderstanding has been cleared up.”

Barton flashed another grin his way, all white teeth and crinkly eyes. Phil hastily scrambled out of the car.

“You too, Coulson.” Barton told him through the window, making Phil start slightly at the use of his name. “Maybe I’ll send you a postcard when everything’s back to normal.”

Phil didn’t try to hide his smile this time, but suppressed the urge to lift his hand in a wave the way his mother always did when she saw him off. The engine rumbled to life once more and Phil let himself take one last look at Barton, before turning and walking towards the familiar footpath that led around to the building’s entrance.

His phone chimed in his pocket, and Phil took the time to retrieve it, finding both Pepper’s and Lucy’s replies waiting. Lucy was already sending him spreadsheets and Pepper told him that of course he could stay, but sounded increasingly concerned when she asked him what had happened and if he was alright. Not wanting her to worry, Phil hit reply and told her that he was fine and that he would tell her everything when they saw each other that evening.

Phil was just about to hit ‘send’, when a hand landed on his shoulder, jerking him around just as a fist collided with his jaw. Not having been hit like this since high school, Phil was absolutely unprepared for the sharp pain that immediately raced through his entire skull, making his vision black out for a split second and sending him reeling backwards.

The only reason Phil didn’t land on the floor was the presence of another thug at his back, who promptly grabbed his arms in a harsh grip and held them at an angle that made his shoulders ache. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see at least three more goons standing in a wide circle around them.

“Where is it?” thug number one, whose fist was still closer to Phil’s face than he would like, bit out.

Head still swimming, Phil tried his best to focus. “Where’s what?” he asked, his jaw aching enough to almost send tears to his eyes.

The fist connected again, this time in his stomach. Phil doubled over, bile rising in his throat as he coughed harshly. Thug two held him firmly, wrenching his arms further back and forcing Phil to remain upright even as he gasped for air.

“The plans, where are they?” thug one insisted, all but spitting the words in Phil’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phil gasped, wondering how much pain it’ll take to render him unconscious. On the other hand, it was surely far from these thug’s first rodeo and they probably knew exactly how to keep someone conscious enough to drag out the pain.

Thug one looked for all the world as if he would land another punch and Phil cursed himself for lingering. If he had been at the front of the building, they wouldn’t have been able to get a hold of him like this. Here, at the back between bushes and in the tall shadow of the apartment-block, they could take their sweet time with him.

Trying to brace himself against the pain, Phil took a deep breath and hoped that the next hit would be aimed somewhere other than his stomach. He needn’t have worried.

Thug one landed on the floor with an ‘oomph’ and thug two let go of Phil in surprise. Not one to miss an opportunity, Phil landed his elbow in thug two’s chest, knocking the breath out of him and making him fall back some more. Next to Phil, another goon was felled like a tree, revealing the familiar form of Barton behind him.

There was no time to dwell on that fact, for thug two was still in commission and clearly pissed off. While Barton darted out of the way of the only other remaining goon still standing, Phil ducked to avoid thug two’s fist and used the very juvenile but effective method of stomping down on the other man’s foot. It resulted in throwing him off enough for Phil to punch him in the nose, cringing at the disgusting feeling of it giving way beneath his knuckles, and spraying his hand in blood. Thug two stumbled back, straight into Barton it seemed, and the agent wasted no time in sweeping his feet from under him and knocking him out with an efficient elbow to his temple.

“Not bad,” Barton said, flashing him a grin that could be described as nothing but cheeky.

Stepping over the fallen thug, Barton cast a critical look at Phil’s jaw, but did not reach out to touch him. For a moment, Phil wondered what it would be like to feel those fingers against his skin, but he quickly shoved the thought aside. Now was not the time.

“Are you alright?” Barton asked, his brow slightly wrinkled in concern as he took in Phil’s no doubt reddened jaw.

“I think so,” Phil carefully probed at his face and experimentally opened and closed his mouth. “There’s nothing broken, at least.”

Barton nodded, seemingly satisfied for the moment and cast his gaze around in a by now familiar motion. “We need to move.”

Phil followed his gaze, but couldn’t see anything suspicious. “Why did you come back?”

Barton looked back at him, still looking terribly inconspicuous in his jeans and t-shirt. “These idiots,” he prodded one of the fallen thugs with the tip of his boot, the only thing that had remained from his previous outfit, a look of disgust on his face. “Thought I wouldn’t see them.”

Phil looked down at the felled men. “So, what now?”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” Barton said and it sounded almost like a sigh. “Or anywhere else, probably. They think you’re working with me and they’ll hunt you down, so you’ll just have to come along.”

“Come along where?” Phil asked, incredulously eyes snapping back to Barton. “I can’t just leave! I need to go to work. And what about my family?”

Barton rubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders tight with tension and the familiar frown firmly in place. “Look, I know this is all my fault and I’m sorry, but I didn’t plan for this to happen and, believe me, it’s just as much an inconvenience for you as it is for me. But if you want to stay alive and out of prison, your only chance is to stick with me.”

Phil looked back at the thugs, thinking of what he would do if they came after him again. He couldn’t stay here and he couldn’t go to his family, because then they’d know where they lived and Phil couldn’t risk that. The police wasn’t an option either, as Phil had already willingly helped Barton once. He might get away with telling them that he’d been a hostage, but Phil was certain that he hardly looked like one on the CCTV footage.

Barton was right, he had no choice. Phil took a deep breath, doing his best to not let his agitation show.

“Alright. Where are we going?”

Picking up his duffel and guitar case where he had stowed them behind a bush, Barton straightened himself and looked into the distance, the bright morning making his eyes appear even lighter and sharper than usual.

“Vienna,” he said. “But before that, we need to get you a passport.”


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

_She was even more beautiful, more lethal than he had imagined. Seeing her move suddenly put all the things he’d heard and read about her into glaringly sharp perspective. He released an arrow, taking out the thug that was trying to creep up behind her and, as her eyes found his, she gave him a jerky nod in acknowledgment._

_Despite their skill-set, she was already bleeding from her right thigh and he could feel his ribs protesting from where one of the thugs had rammed the butt if his gun into him. Shooting again, he neatly avoided bullets and swung down from his perch to land at her back. He covered her, shooting another arrow as she snapped another clip into her gun._

_“Agent, what the hell is going on down there?” the familiar voice snapped over his intercom._

_He ignored it for another moment, before pausing briefly to change arrow-heads. “Bit busy at the moment, boss,” he shot back, already aiming once more._

_“Why haven’t you taken her out yet?” the voice persisted and he almost regretted defying the other man on the line._

_“There’s been a bit of a change of plan down here,” he informed him, arm guard digging into his skin as he was forced to drop to the ground and roll to the side._

_“I’m coming down there,” the voice snapped, clearly furious with him for disobeying direct orders. “Maintain position.”_

Like hell _, he thought as he took down another thug and let her grab his arm and drag him behind cover._

_“Here,” she said, slightly breathless from exertion. “Take this.”_

_His hand automatically closed around the small flash drive, even as he gave her an incredulous look. “Are these the plans?”_

_She nodded sharply, quickly glancing around to check if the thugs were closing in on them. “I’ve got the other part. One’s useless without the other. It’s safer that way.”_

_Torn, he simply stared at the small drive for longer than the situation allowed. He could already see some of his fellow agents approaching._

_Before he could make the decision himself, however, the junior agents opened fire and he was forced to thrust the drive deep into his breast pocket before dragging her further back into the shadows. She let out an annoyed huff, before returning fire, neatly shooting one of the agents in the shoulder._

_This was it, then. They’d think he’d finally snapped, that he’d been lured in by her and was ready to betray them all, just as they had always thought he would. Despite what everyone thought, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that no one but his handler had ever trusted him, knew that they were all just waiting for him to fuck up._

_His eyes might be his best asset, but that didn’t mean he had no ears. He knew what the other agents whispered behind his back, knew that they were scared of him._

_“Barton!” his handler barked into the comm, a desperate edge to his voice._

_Clint closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, boss.”_

_Like tearing a plaster from a wound, Clint wrenched his earpiece out and threw it to the side. It hurt more than he thought it would._

_Red flashed next to him. “C’mon, Barton. Move!”_

_Left with no other choice, Clint followed._

_*_

“So, a passport?” Phil asked, almost absentmindedly as he opened the lid of his laptop. “I assume we’re talking about the non-legal way?”

Barton eyed him briefly from the side, before training his eyes back onto the road. They were in their third stolen car today and Phil was torn between guilt and the mortifying feeling of caring less with each time.

“I have a contact,” Barton said vaguely, shooting him another curious glance. “What are you doing?”

Phil quickly typed in a command that split his screen and made several slightly grainy videos pop up all over one half, while the other was still running strings of lime-green data and text. Obviously, there had been no need for the cheesy colour, but Phil was a closeted geek and at the time when he had programmed his computer, the idea of a _Matrix_ based interface has seemed hilarious to him. That, combined with an admittedly ridiculous Captain America desktop-wallpaper, had ensured that no one but him had ever lain eyes on his laptop before.

He was only glad that he had refrained from sticking equally ridiculous and cheesy Captain America stickers all over it. This way, at least, he could save some of his dignity.

“I’m having a look at the CCTV to see if your friends are following us.”

Phil could not suppress the slightly smug feeling at Barton’s almost slack-jawed expression. There might not have been a lot of things he was good at, but once he had dedicated himself to something he was determined to hone his skills to perfection.

“Are you for real?” Barton asked incredulously. “Anything else you want to share with me? Maybe that you’re psychic? Or that you have a third eye?”

“My sister forced me to take dancing lessons with her?”

Barton flashed him a shark-like grin, eyes alight with mischief and making Phil feel as though he’d just made a huge mistake. “Is that were you get your moves from? I wouldn’t have expected a paper pusher to hold himself so well in a fight.”

Phil didn’t even bother to look up again, instead scanning the footage on his screen and doing his best to spot anything that might seem out of place. “No, that would be the self-defence classes our parents insisted on.”

“Self-defence classes?”

“Our dad got tired of my sister jumping around in front our TV to Tae Bo tapes and said that if she’s into that she might as well take some proper classes that’d actually help her out if something happened. She insisted I come too. She’s very persuasive,” Phil said absentmindedly, not giving Barton a chance to respond as he finally spotted something on the screen. “Here, take a look at this. Isn’t this one of the cars that was following us earlier?”

Phil turned the laptop and Barton had the time to take a good look as the lights in front of them turned red. “That’s the people from my agency. They’re trying to see if I’m stupid enough to go to one of their safe-houses or contacts.”

“What about the passport guy?”

Barton gave a dark chuckle, turning his attention back to the road as the traffic started moving again. “I might be a lot of things, but stupid’s not one of them. I’ve been taking care of myself almost all my life, long before those idiots recruited me for their purposes.”

Phil was itching to ask more, had the unexplainable urge to get to know Barton and find out what lay under all the steely agent-facade, but the tight look on the other man’s face stopped Phil before he could give in. Barton had no reason to trust him, didn’t look much like someone that trusted anyone, really, and Phil was just here because Barton felt responsible for dragging him into this mess and didn’t want him to land in a ditch somewhere. He hadn’t even given him his first name, for crying out loud, so why should he tell him anything else? Phil wisely chose to remain silent.

*

“Macy’s?” Phil was torn between horror and bewilderment as he squinted against the early morning sun, taking in the all too familiar high-rise.

They’d ditched the car in a nearby car-park and Phil hadn’t bothered asking where they were headed, only to arrive at his own personal hell. He’d hated Macy’s ever since he was a kid when his mother had dragged him to Charleston with alarming frequency, making up excuses to his father on how _Phil_ needed something and then high-tailing it out of Oak Hill and proceeding to spend almost all the money she had brought on new clothes and accessories for herself. Later, she would conspire with his sister and it was a long time before Phil actually managed to escape these kind of trips. Phil felt sick merely thinking back on it, let alone entering the building before him.

“We need to get you some clothes,” Barton told him, already soldiering forward. “It’s probably not your usual place, but we need somewhere that’s big and noisy so we don’t stick out and I’m quite sure it doesn’t get much busier and louder than here.”

Phil was pleased to see Barton’s lips twist in distaste. If he had to suffer through this, at least he didn’t have to do it alone. There was nothing worse than trudging alongside someone who was having the time of their life while he was seriously considering throwing himself down the closest, neatly glassed off edge.

As expected, Macy’s was a complete nightmare. Phil wasn’t sure if it felt so much worse because he simply hadn’t been here for so long, or if it actually _had_ gotten worse in the last few years. They had to dodge mothers with their screaming children, most of which wanted to plough them over with their baby buggies, and harried men who looked almost as unhappy as Phil felt.

They consulted the floor chart and chose the escalator instead of the elevator, seeing as there was a big crowd already waiting for the latter. Head already banging, Phil blindly followed Barton and even had to grab hold of his duffel's strap once when at least six people with identically red hair swarmed past and nearly separated them. 

Finally having reached the men's clothing section, Phil breathed a sigh of relief before quickly grabbing the fist few acceptable pieces of clothing he saw, unwilling to linger any longer than necessary in this hellhole. Being someone who was better safe than sorry, Phil decided on two pairs of dark jeans, two shirts, one t-shirt, a handful of underwear, a sweater and a warm jacket just in case. He was quite certain that Vienna was quite a bit colder than New York this time of the year.

Barton was waiting by the cash register, a second brand-new duffel hanging off his shoulder alongside his own. They got in line and Phil watched him digging around the back pocket of his jeans, extracting a wad of cash.

“What are you doing?”

Barton glanced at him. “I’m the reason your apartment got blown up, I think it’s only fair I pay for these,” he said, nodding at the heap of clothes in Phil’s arms. “Besides, you can’t use your credit card or they’ll be able to track us.”

“Great,” Phil muttered, not having thought of that yet.

By the time Phil could put the clothes down at last, he felt hot and uncomfortable and his arms had started protesting at being held in the same position for an extended amount of time. Barton flashed the woman behind the register a disarming smile as he casually set the duffel down on the counter.

“Could you do me a massive favour,” he took the time to glance down at the woman’s name-tag. “Stacy? Could you cut off the tags straight away? We’re kind of in a hurry.”

Stacy, quite possibly starving for male attention if the amount of make-up on her face was any indication, practically melted under Barton’s gaze and immediately conjured a pair of scissors. “Of course, no problem at all,” she gushed. “Do you want me to fold them straight into the bag?”

Barton deliberately held her gaze, his smile never faltering even as his voice lowered to a softer, more seductive note. “That’d be great, Stacy, thanks. You’re a life-saver.”

Phil had to look away, swallowing hard as he tried to get the visual out of his head. He only hoped Barton wouldn’t ever try this trick on him, or Phil was certain he’d be doomed. Taking great care to keep his eyes averted, Phil feigned interest in the list about the return-policies of Macy’s clothing section for the remainder of the interaction until Barton handed him his neatly filled duffel.

“I need to get a few more things, you head over to the restrooms and change. I’ll meet you again in fifteen minutes by that column over there. Oh, and can you hold onto this for me?”

Phil obediently accepted Barton’s guitar-case and watched the agent give him a nod, before turning and immediately being swallowed by the crowd.

*

Phil tugged at the hem of his shirt, relieved that he had gotten the size right, but having become unused to the custom cut compared to the tailored ones he usually wore. His position was a good one and there weren’t a whole lot of things he spent money on. He didn’t have a fancy apartment, he didn’t go on holiday other than to fly to West Virginia to visit his parents and he hardly ever went out. That left him more than enough money to indulge in his obsession for Captain America, the latest Stark technology (which he always got before it hit the stores and for a better price - thank you, Pepper) and expensive suits.

Resisting the urge to further fiddle with his clothes, Phil instead turned his attention to his surroundings, looking for Barton’s familiar form. What he saw was not Barton, but at least two pristinely dressed men along with one that wore something vaguely similar to what Barton had worn when they’d first met. The light caught on a black, shiny eagle on the men’s arm, identical to the one Barton’s suit had on his chest.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Phil fished his phone from his jeans’ pocket and quickly tapped first into Macy’s wi-fi and then their security camera feeds. He found two more men one floor lower and at least six on the ground floor, manning the entrances and holding fingers to their ears as they undoubtedly listened to orders over a comm unit.

Checking the progress of the three men, Phil noted that they were much closer than before and discreetly edged further behind the column, nudging the guitar-case and duffel with his foot the hide them from sight.

“Christ, they’re fast,” Barton’s voice suddenly said from beside him, making Phil jump and whirl around.

Barton’s hair looked at least one shade lighter and even spikier than usual. He swiftly extracted something from the plastic bag he was carrying and Phil took a sharp breath as Barton was suddenly right in front of him, hardly an inch away.

“Here,” Barton said quickly, sliding a pair of glassed onto Phil’s nose and making him blink rapidly. “That should help.”

Phil raised his hand, instinctively seeking to touch the new accessory, but Barton slapped it away even as he grabbed the guitar-case. “Leave it,” he ordered. “C’mon, we need to get outta here.”

Snapping out of it, Phil fell into step beside Barton and looked back at his phone. Four more agents had joined the party.

“There’s three on this floor, two on the third, three on the second and seven on the ground floor.”

Barton briefly glanced at the screen and cursed. “Shit, they got Sitwell in.”

Phil raised his eyes, taking in Barton’s troubled expression. “Who's Sitwell?”

Barton ushered Phil through an emergency exit door and into the stairwell of the building. “My handler,” he said tightly as they made their way down. “And a pretty good agent. We’ve worked together since I joined and he taught me a lot of stuff, meaning he knows me best, which in this case could seriously fuck things up.”

Phil looked back at the screen, mindful not to crash down the stairs or slow down, and took another look at what he assumed must be Sitwell. He did look like he knew what he was doing and he was the only one who kept constantly talking, presumably handing out orders to all the other agents.

“Give me that for a sec,” Barton’s voice tore through his observations and Phil handed over his phone without thinking.

Barton rapidly swept through the video feeds with his finger, his sharp eyes moving quickly back and forth, before stopping on something. “There, a tourist group,” he said, thrusting the phone back into Phil’s hands and pushing through another door and back into the main shop area. “They’re on their way out. Should cover us nicely.”

They found the group in question easily, and Phil followed Barton’s example and neatly slotted himself into place between them. One of Barton’s warm, strong hands landed on his back and Phil had to suppress a shiver as the other man leaned closer, his whole body leaning in.

“Look at your phone,” Barton murmured close to his ear, his own eyes moving down to look at the screen of Phil’s cell. “Don’t look up.”

They exited the building right under the agents’ noses, keeping their heads low and eyes fixed on Phil’s phone. They stuck with the mob of tourists for another few meters until Barton gently tugged Phil away and towards the closest subway entrance. 

*

The ride on the subway was hot and uncomfortable, far too many people squashed into the tiny space and Phil felt his shirt sticking to his back where he leaned against the divider next to the doors. Barton was forced to press in close, his guitar-case barely fitting into the space between them and digging into Phil’s body in more than one place. It was almost worse than Macy’s and Phil had never wished for his car more.

He was unsurprised when they got off at somewhere that was definitely not a respectable area, but Phil was merely glad to be off the subway and took a few deep breaths of air that weren’t filled with the smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke from other people’s clothes. Barton switched the guitar-case from one hand to the other as he led them from the station. In the sunlight, Barton’s hair looked almost golden and Phil was sure that it hadn’t been as blond a while ago.

“What happened to you hair?” he asked curiously, reaching up to adjust the unfamiliar weight of the glasses on his nose.

“Hair bleach,” Barton said, flashing him a grin. “They used to put it on me all the time. Apparently blond is more attractive.”

Phil forcibly suppressed the urge to ask who ‘they’ were, not wanting to give Barton a reason to tense up, and refrained from commenting that, actually, he thought Barton had looked absolutely devastating with his natural, dirty blond hair and that whoever had told him that crap about blond hair was a dumbass.

Phil was quite certain he’d never been in this part of town before, but then again, he didn’t make a habit of visiting the Bronx. The way he looked and dressed practically screamed ‘mug me’ and he preferred his blood inside his body. The run-down building they entered looked like something straight from a gangster movie and had Barton not been right beside him at all times, Phil was sure that the feeling of unease creeping up his spine would have been actual fear.

They had to step over a guy that had passed out in the hall, saw some guys barely out of their teens openly selling drugs and Phil had to suppress the urge to hold the door open for a teenage-mother weighed down with both her baby and several bags of groceries. When they finally arrived at the right apartment, it might as well not have had a door at all, considering the state of the present one. It hung off it’s hinges at a strange angle, missed a lock and had several marks in it that Phil could’ve sworn were bullet holes.

Barton gave a sharp rap, making the abused wood shake beneath his fist, before simply pushing it open and walking into the room. A man and a woman were making out on a couch to their right, but Barton completely ignored them so Phil did the same, barely keeping his hand from holding onto the strap of Barton’s duffle-bag once more so not to get left behind.

“Hawkeye!” a voice suddenly exclaimed and Phil watched the owner come into the room from one of the side-doors, arms open as if in welcome.

He was of Asian decent, but his skin was a few shades darker than Phil and Barton’s. His eyes were almost black, small but sharp and Phil got the feeling that he wasn’t a man to take lightly at being played for a fool. To Phil’s surprise, Barton gave him a genuine smile and they hugged each other, briefly but firmly.

“Hey, Marty,” Barton said as he drew back, landing a playful punch in the other man’s shoulder. “How’ve you been?”

The man named Marty shrugged. “You know how it is, same old, same old. They found out my last place again and now I had to move to this shit-hole,” his voice was smooth and held nothing but a generic American accent. “But what can I do for you, man? Haven’t seen you in ages! And who’s your friend?”

Barton shrugged casually. “That’s why we’re here, actually,” he neatly dodged the question. “We ran into some trouble and we need to get him some ID. I want to cross some borders, so better make it good.”

Marty looked completely unfazed by the request and, with one last calculating look at Phil, turned and led the way to the next room. “Not a problem, man. For you, I can get something whipped up in the next hour.”

The room they entered next held little other than a huge desk overflowing with various computer equipment, the floor covered in dozens of loose cables, and a lonely stool placed in front of the only piece of wall that was painted a pristine white. Marty obviously had been in this particular business for a while and Phil hoped that he was as good as Barton thought he was.

Phil watched Barton put down his duffel and guitar-case, absently bending and extending his arm a few times to get his muscles to loosen, before taking Phil’s bag as well and putting it with the rest of their stuff. 

“Picture first,” Barton said, gently guiding Phil towards the stool.

Phil set obediently, even though every muscle in his body was taunt with tension, his jaw aching from pressing his teeth together. The stool was quite high, so when Barton bent down slightly, it was enough for their eyes to meet. Phil wasn’t sure what it was that he saw in Barton’s eyes, but he knew that he was unable to look away.

Barton carefully straightened his glasses, before letting his hands drop to Phil’s collar and straightening that as well. Both gestures were unnecessary, but infinitely calming and Phil let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, his jaw unclenching slightly and his lips able to form a weak smile in response to the twitch of the corner of Barton’s mouth.

“Okay?” he murmured, close enough for Phil to feel Barton’s breath on his face.

Phil licked his lips and gave a small nod, not trusting his voice to give a verbal response. Obviously satisfied with that, Barton straightened and made his way over to where Marty was typing away at one of the computers.

“Date of birth?” Marty asked briskly, looking expectantly at Phil.

Phil frowned. “You’ll use my real birthday?”

“Dates are the most tricky bit. A name - you remember easily enough, but when someone asks for your birthday, the brain is usually too slow to catch up. That’s why I like to stick with the original date, less confusion more credibility.”

That actually made a lot of sense.

“May 2, 1968.”

*

“Greg Davis?”

Barton grinned. “Could be worse.”

They had finally made it out of the ‘shit-hole’ as Marty had named it and were back on the subway, thankfully in a carriage that was emptier than the one they had arrived in. Phil gave up studying his new passport for flaws, knowing that his untrained eye was unlikely to spot any even if there had been something wrong with it. Barton was sprawled out on the seat opposite, guitar-case cradled between his legs and duffle resting on the seat next to him.

“So, what’s in Vienna?”

“My associate,” Barton said in that particular way that qualified as an answer without handing out any actual information. “That’s where we’d said we’d meet up if we got split.”

“Is your associate someone from your agency?”

Barton snorted as though Phil had just made a joke. “No, she’s her own woman. I’m just glad she didn’t gut me the moment she had the opportunity.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Sounds lovely.”

“You have no idea.”

*

They barely caught the Maple Leaf midday train out of New York City, but when Phil sank into his seat in the business class section, he dared to relax for the first time since this whole debacle had started last night - if only for a little while. He must have fallen asleep, because when he next opened his eyes, the landscape as well as the light beyond the windows had changed.

He shifted upright in his seat from where he must have slid down during his nap, a distant ache in his spine, and fumbled with his glasses, still unused to that particular extra. Next to him, Barton had somehow managed to pick-pocket Phil for his phone and was playing Doodle Jump, a game that Phil was certain hadn’t been there before now.

“Where are we?” Phil’s voice was scratchy, even to his own ears.

“Just past Hudson,” Barton answered without looking up. “There’s a sandwich if you’re hungry. Do you mind turkey?”

Phil spotted said sandwich and his stomach immediately gave a traitorous growl, reminding Phil that other than the coffee this morning, he hadn’t had anything to eat all day. “Turkey’s fine,” he assured Barton, already reaching out and unwrapping it. “What’d I miss?”

“I’ve broken my own high-score seven times.” Phil glanced over and saw the little green alien reach three more little planks of moving wood, before tumbling down and out of sight. “Eight.”

“Fascinating,” Phil said drily, trying his best to look casual as he took another bite from his sandwich and finally gave into the nagging urge to ask some questions. “Do they teach you that in agent-school?”

“Agent-school?” Barton laughed at him, low and really kind of adorable. “Really, Coulson?”

Phil allowed the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth and finished off his sandwich with a few more bites. He wiped his mouth and hands and then dumped the wrapper and napkin into the small trashcan next to their seats.

“So, how does it work?” Phil pressed, curiosity getting the better of him. “Do they recruit you directly from the military?”

Barton shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the phone’s screen even though he had stopped playing. “Sometimes.”

Phil shifted slightly in his seat and turned further towards the other man, carefully watching his face. “What about you?”

The screen went black as the automatic screen-lock activated, making Barton’s eyes look darker. He fiddled with it for a moment, turning it between his fingers. Phil could see a few callouses on them, probably from handling his bow, and tried very hard not to imagine what they would feel like against his own skin.

“I wasn’t in the military,” Barton finally answered, tearing Phil from his inappropriate thoughts and his gaze shifted back to Barton’s face.

“What did you do, then, before joining your agency?” Phil tried his best to keep his tone mild and unthreatening. 

Barton pressed the phone between his palms, looking miles away. “I was in the circus.”

“That…sounds exciting.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t.” Barton’s voice was sharp and bitter. “If I’d had any other option I would’ve left much sooner than I did. When Sitwell offered me a job with the agency, I didn’t have to think twice.”

Phil thought of the agent they had seen at Macy’s and was trying to reconcile what he knew of Barton with a man like him. “You said Sitwell is your handler. What does that mean, exactly?”

Barton shrugged once more, but Phil could see that his muscles were tense. “He’s responsible for me. He gives me orders, assignments, and I report back to him. My babysitter, basically.”

It was hard to imagine Barton taking orders from anyone. “But you like him?”

“He’s alright,” Barton’s voice was as casual and unreadable as ever, but Phil could see the tightness around his eyes and lips and his phone was crushed even tighter between Barton’s hands. “He was there for me when no one else was, believed in me, so I’m kind of indebted to him for that. And now…”

Phil reached out and gently tugged at his phone, rescuing it from Barton’s kneading grip. Barton relinquished it immediately, his fingers closing around air instead and curling inwards towards his palms. Phil wanted to slide his own between them, knowing from the few times Barton had touched him how warm his hands were. Phil gripped the armrest instead.

“Now what?” he asked, voice coming out quieter and more tender than he had intended.

Barton’s eyes flickered towards his own, before flickering away once more. He looked a little like a trapped animal and Phil was expecting him to jump up and flee any second. He regretted pushing, but at the same time knew that he wouldn’t have been able to resist.

But Barton stayed where he was, inhaling a sharp breath. “Nothing I just…” He looked down, briefly pressing his lips together. “I just hope he can hold onto that belief for a little while longer. I owe it to him not to disappoint him. No more than I already have.”

This time, Phil’s hand acted before his brain could interfere and his fingers closed around Barton’s arm. As soon as he realised what he he’d done, Phil wanted to snatch his hand back, but Barton’s eyes finally met his own and pinned him into place. He made no move to escape Phil’s hold.

Phil swallowed, holding the sharp gaze with his own and feeling as though it was reaching right to his core.

“You won’t,” his voice, when he finally found it, was low, intimate, but held a firm edge, wanting Barton to see that he meant it. He could feel the faint tingling in his fingers where their skin touched and couldn’t help tightening his grip to intensify the contact, feeling Barton’s firm muscles flexing under his touch.

The heat between them was almost unbearable and Phil could feel his point of gravity shifting, could feel his body fighting to lean in closer. He felt a ridiculous urge to wrap Barton in his arms and protect him, to give him all the comfort that he craved. Instead, Phil turned his head away from Barton’s heavy gaze and steeled himself, prying his fingers away from Barton’s warm skin.

Barton hardly needed protection, least of all from someone like Phil.

Hand now cold, Phil turned his gaze to the window.

*

“So, what about you, then?” 

Barton had re-claimed his phone and Phil had dragged his laptop from his bag and taken the time to catch up on a few things. He'd answered his sister’s email and looked at a few spreadsheets from work, sending Lucy instructions on how to handle the latest emergency and telling her not to stress herself and leave everything else until he was back at the office. He was glad for Lucy. Without her the entire accounts department would have failed the minute he was unavailable. There was a reason Phil hated leaving the office unattended, knowing that he would return to far more work than necessary and that the stress of rightening all the clusterfucks would more than erase any relaxation a few days off might have brought. It also didn't help that he was a bit of a control freak and couldn't stomach anyone else doing his work, because he simply knew that it wouldn't be completed to his satisfaction. He preferred doing things on his own, even if that usually ended in him leaving the office an hour or two after he was supposed to. Though it hardly mattered, as there wasn’t anyone waiting for him at home anyway.

Phil looked up from his screen, feeling the frown that a particular calculation had brought to his forehead deepen slightly in question. “What about me?”

“How did you end up as an accountant?”

Phil shrugged, his gaze moving back to the spreadsheet in front of him without actually seeing it. “I didn’t want to stay at my parents’ farm. I always wanted to go to university and accountancy seemed easy and secure. I’ve always been good with numbers.”

“No shit.” Barton nodded at the laptop on the small foldable table in front of him. “You sure as hell know what you’re doing with that. Why didn’t you do something like that instead?”

“I did.” Giving up on the spreadsheet, Phil clicked it shut and closed his laptop, instead turning his full attention to Barton. “I majored in both. Computers’ve always been my hobby, so I thought why not.”

Barton shifted slightly in his seat, looking slightly incredulous. “You make all of it sound awfully easy,” he said, doubt colouring his every word, Phil’s phone now forgotten in his left hand.

“It’s hardly as sophisticated as you think,” Phil said, a smile tugging at his lips. He felt stupidly proud at the obvious admiration on Barton’s face. “It’s basically just math. It’s nowhere near as hard as what you do.”

Barton shook his head. “What I do is easy, it’s just a skill-set. Everyone can learn it if they’re drilled long enough. I’ve practically never done anything else, so my body got a lot more workout than my brain.”

Phil’s frown was back now. “You make it sound as though you’re stupid, which, really, couldn’t be further from the truth. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Barton grinned at him, but his eyes were dark with something that Phil couldn’t read. “Something we have in common, then.”

Phil ducked his head to hide another smile and instead glanced outside at the now dark landscape whizzing past. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere after Rochester,” Barton said, sounding closer from where he’d leaned over to follow Phil’s gaze. “We should reach the border soon.”

“I’ve never been to Canada,” Phil mused absently, his eyes now unable to focus on the darkness outside and instead drawn to Barton’s face behind him, mirrored in the glass.

“I had a mission in Ottawa, once.” Barton’s reflection smiled at him, meeting his eyes in the window. “Jumped off a roof and Sitwell nearly had kittens.”

Phil was torn between amusement and shaking his head, but ended up smiling once again. Barton always seemed to make it so easy, drawing it out of him without even trying.

“Do you like it?” he asked, then, curiosity spiked once more. “Travelling. Moving from place to place?”

Between the circus and his agency, Barton must’ve been halfway across the world by now. The thought made Phil feel every bit the farm-boy all the other stuck-up kids at Boston University had always accused him to be, if not with crude jokes, then with their looks and the way they’d treated him as though all he knew was riding a horse and shearing sheep.

 Barton shrugged, his eyes shifting away for a moment before returning to Phil’s in the window. “I’ve never really known anything else,” his voice was softer now, somehow closer. “But sometimes it would’ve been nice to stick around for a bit, I guess.”

Phil swallowed, heart clenching slightly in his chest and he almost regretted bringing it up. He quickly sought for something to lighten the mood. “Try living in Oak Hill, West Virginia for a while and you’ll be back on the road before you know it.”

Relieved, Phil watched Barton’s grin return. “The farm-animal jokes ever get old?”

Finally abandoning the window, Phil turned back and only just kept from reeling back when he found Barton to be much closer than he’d expected, close enough for his warm breath to brush against Phil’s face. It took every tiny bit of his control to keep his eyes from flickering down to Barton’s all-too inviting lips.

“You have no idea.”

*

They had stopped not five minutes ago when Barton let out a curse beside him, sharp eyes fixed at something on the platform outside. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They were at the border to Canada and Phil had fought the slow build-up of his nervousness ever since the train had come to a halt. Amtrak and CBP personnel was walking past their window at irregular intervals, but when Phil followed Barton’s gaze he immediately found the source of his displeasure. Almost directly opposite their window stood a man in a suit and two more in black field-wear with the eagle of Barton’s agency gleaming on their arms. Phil’s muscles snapped tight, his chest constricting as he took in their stony expressions and the way their mouths were moving in rapid discussion. 

It was impossible, Barton had everything planned so thoroughly, there was no way that they were able to find them again so quickly. Yet, here they were, a hairs-breadth away from being caught. Barton cursed again and rose from his seat, making Phil’s head turn sharply towards him. 

“Where’re you going?”

“I need to find out what they’re going to do,” Barton told him softly, eyes still fixed on the dark figures outside. “You wait here, I’ll be back in a bit.”

Before Phil could protest, Barton had already taken off down the train. Lips pressed tightly together, Phil looked back at the agents, watching as they kept conferring quietly and then exchanging a few words with a CBP agent. Phil gripped his armrest in an attempt to ground himself and glanced in the direction where Barton had vanished, hoping no one had noticed him yet. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw the agent in the suit draw out a small device, his face flooding with the bluish brightness of a small LCD screen. Squinting, Phil moved closer to the window, willing the agent to move the device and providing another angle in order for Phil to be able to identify it. As if having heard his thoughts, the man outside shifted his grip on the device and held it a bit higher in order to point something out to the agent next to him.

The lights from the train-station caught on the shiny ‘H’ plastered all over the device’s back and a red light blinked to life at its tip.

Phil was out of his seat and running after Barton before his brain had caught up with his legs. Heart hammering in his chest, Phil tried his best to look like someone who was simply desperate for the toilet and not rushing through the carriage like a madmen. If Barton had already gone too far, if Phil had to chase him through the entire train, then it would be too late. There was no time, not another minute left to lose.

He passed the first restroom and continued on through the next carriage, his eyes frantically moving from side to side in order to check if anyone was following. If the agents outside on the platform were already moving into his direction.

 It was when he passed through the next door at the end of the carriage that he caught sight of Barton’s familiar form. He had plastered himself to the wall opposite the toilet, while still somehow managing to look casual about it. Relief slammed into Phil, momentarily weakening his knees, before he shot forward and wrapped one of his hands around Barton’s arm, giving it an anxious squeeze without meaning to.

“Barton,” Phil said quickly, breath rushing from his lungs in uneven bursts. “Quick, in here.”

Barton took one look at his face and let himself be pushed across the narrow corridor and into the restroom to their left. Phil quickly squeezed himself into the small space and locked the door behind them. The only window in the room had tinted glass, a fact which made Phil feel both more secure and further on edge.

“Coulson-” Barton started, bewildered, but Phil cut him off, already whipping out his phone and typing in a command.

“A tracker,” Phil said, his fingers flying over the screen and his ribs starting to ache under the force of his irregular breathing pattern.

“Wha-”

“They put a tracker on you,” Phil interrupted again, swiping through a few functions before finally finding the one he’d been looking for. “That’s how they were able to find us so quickly all the time.”

Barton sucked in a sharp breath. “You sure?”

Phil glanced up. “I would recognise Hammer’s sorry excuse for tech anywhere. We can be grateful it wasn’t something of Stark’s, or they’d already have gotten us back in New York.”

“Motherfuckers,” Barton said harshly, eyes wild and dark. “They must’ve planted it when they gave me my gear. It must’ve been there all along!”

Phil felt his heart give a painful twinge of sympathy, but forced his eyes back on the lit up silhouette of Barton on his screen. It was bad enough knowing the people you risked your life for were a little suspicious, that maybe they didn’t like you much, but this was a whole new level of distrust. It must be shattering to see such blatant proof of it.

His phone gave a small, bleeping sound, tearing Phil from his thoughts and indicating that the scanning was complete. Two red dots blinked up at him.

“There’s two. They’re in the soles of your boots.” Phil pocketed his phone and looked at Barton, voice low with urgency. “The signal’s strong. We need to get them out _now_. Do you have a knife?”

“Just this one.” Already unlacing his boots, Barton reached into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved a small pocket knife. “And we can’t cut the sole, it’s Kevlar based. It’ll take too long. How long till they find us?”

“Three, maybe four minutes,” Phil said, already looking around for something else they could use. Sharp, they needed something sharp. Phil ran through a series of options, even as Barton started in on the first boot, cutting along the edge to be able to get inside and reach the sole from there. Phil turned his head, desperate for a solution - and met his own, frantic eyes. 

“The mirror!” he burst out, making Barton’s eyes snap to his.

“Coulson, you’re a genius,” he said, sounding as though he actually meant it, and thrusting both the boot and knife he’d been holding at Phil’s chest. “Here, take this and try and get the bastard out.”

Phil moved back, giving Barton room, and didn’t hesitate to plunge the knife into the leather. It was strong, but the knife was sharp and didn’t bend even when Phil gave a vicious tug.

With a single, crunching sound, Barton ripped the metal towel-dispenser from the wall, making Phil throw a nervous glance at the still locked door and hoping that no one would come investigating after the strange sounds. Barton’s sharp eyes fixed onto the edge of the mirror, taking only a second to aim, before bringing the towel-dispenser down hard enough to make the whole wall rattle. The corner of the mirror cracked away, long and sharp and perfect, as though Barton had calculated it. It fell into the metal sink with a clattering sound.

Barton snatched up the shard, but Phil stopped him. “Wait, you’ll cut your hands.” Holding onto the hem of his shirt, Phil neatly sliced into it with the knife still clutched in his fingers and tore off a long strip. “Here.”

Barton deftly wrapped the fabric around the sharp edges of the glass and started in on his other boot. Satisfied, Phil turned his attention back to the task of breaching the leather, the boot in his hands even heavier than it looked. Unsurprising if the sole was indeed Kevlar-based. Barton’s agency definitely knew how to equip their agents.

There were several voices talking loudly outside on the platform and Phil’s fingers were aching with the strain of holding the knife steady. His palms were sweaty with nerves and he was forced to stop what he was doing several times to quickly wipe them on his jeans. Even from the inside, the sole was strong and hardly penetrable. He hacked at the spot where he’d seen the tracker, careful not to slice one of his fingers off, heart mercilessly hammering away in his chest. Just another inch, just a little bit more. 

Outside, the voices got closer.

Urged on by panic, Phil gave another ruthless thrust hard enough to make his knuckles protest and finally, finally heard the crunching sound of metal hitting metal. His forehead felt hot and he could feel a bead of sweat running down from his hairline, but relief was making the weight on his chest ease slightly. Rotating the knife, Phil dug deeper, finally bending it under his forceful treatment, but when he wriggled it again, the metal tip of the tracker finally came free. Blindly, he handed Barton the knife, his eyes still fixed on the little piece of metal. Blood welled up as he sharp edge slid into the tip of Phil’s index finger, but Phil didn’t let go and with the next move, had finally tugged it free. All the breath in his lungs left his body, adrenaline still spiking high accompanied with a feeling of triumph.

“Got it,” Barton said next to him, before thrusting a slightly bloodied hand under his nose, holding an identical metal chip.

Phil took them both and quickly threw them into the bowl of the toilet, hitting flush and watching the two chips vanish in the pipes. He only then registered the amount of red that had been on the tracker.

Whirling around, Phil looked at Barton and inhaled sharply. “Barton, your hands!”

Barton shrugged, doing his best to slip back into his ruined shoes. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, you- Don’t touch that!” 

Instinctively, Phil grabbed into Barton’s wrists, keeping him from touching the hem of his jeans and bloodying them as well. He gently tugged Barton to his feet and held his bloodied hands under the small sink. Barton hissed slightly as the water washed over his cuts.

“Hold them there for a moment,” Phil ordered, as he bent down and tugged the, thankfully still clean, hems of Barton’s jeans over his ruined boots, taking care to keep his own slightly bleeding finger away and concealing the damage they had done as best as he could.

Straightening back up, Phil quickly inspected the cuts. There were quite a few, but thankfully none of them too deep. Looking around for the discarded towel-dispenser, Phil extracted a handful and carefully dried Barton’s hands.

“We don’t have time for this,” Barton urged. The voices were back, some bewildered, some snapping orders.

Phil didn’t answer, simply ripped a paper-towel in half and pressed one part each into Barton’s palms. “Here, make a fist so they don’t see what you’re holding. At least like this, you won’t be bleeding all over the place.”

Barton nodded, curling his hands into fists and trapping the paper between his fingers. “Your shirt.”

Looking down at the tattered hem of his shirt, Phil cursed slightly under his breath. Undoing his belt, he quickly stuffed it into his jeans. “Okay, let’s go.”

Barton carefully undid the lock and listened at the door, before opening it a tiny bit and glancing outside. The coast must’ve been clear, because he opened the door wider and gestured for Phil to exit first. The area around the toilet was indeed clear, the voices drifting in through the open doors of the train from outside.

They made their way back to their seats, Phil fighting down the urge to fiddle nervously with his glasses. He saw Barton discreetly lifting a newspaper from a sleeping man’s lap before they slid back into their seats and Phil was relieved to discover none of the other passengers spared them a glance. Outside, the agents were nowhere to be seen.

Barton handed him the newspaper, before folding up the arm-rest between their seats and motioning for him to sit. Phil frowned slightly, but complied, watching Barton briefly rummaging through his duffel on the shelf above their heads and extracting a scrunched up grey hoodie which he unceremoniously dumped on Phil’s lap. That done, he neatly folded himself into his own seat, before turning and laying down sideways, his head now pillowed on the hoodie across Phil’s thighs.

Every single muscle in Phil’s body grew taunt and his heart, which had just begun to slow down again, started hammering anew. “What are you doing?”

Barton tucked his arms against his chest, tapping them between himself and the back-rest, his nose briefly brushing Phil’s stomach and making him suck in an involuntary breath. “Making sure we don’t get caught,” he said softly, his lips close enough that warm air drifted through the thin fabric and directly to Phil’s skin. “Pretend you’re reading the paper and shield me as much as possible. Keep our passports ready.”

His mouth and throat dry enough to make Phil feel as though he’d swallowed sandpaper, he shifted slightly, before unfolding the New York Times and holding it close to his knees. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the CBP along with one of the agents entering the carriage. The man from the CBP started asking for identification, while the agent carefully scanned the faces of the passengers, his eyes wandering from person to person and carefully checking the luggage on the overhead shelves.

Instinctively, Phil curled closer around Barton, the newspaper in his hands rustling slightly as his grip on it tightened unconsciously. Barton’s nose pressed against his stomach and Phil could feel one of his hands sliding upwards to curve around Phil’s hip, thumb barely grazing him as it ran along the edge of Phil’s jeans - managing to simultaneously soothe and inflame him. Phil took another deep breath and forced himself to relax, systematically unlocking every muscle in his body and letting his back sink into the soft seat behind him.

“Passports and tickets, please,” the CBP man demanded, close enough for Phil to be able to read the insignia on his arm. Right next to it, the dark, gleaming eagle of Barton’s agency shone ominously from the broad biceps of the agent beside him. He was currently studying their duffels, before taking one glance at Phil and looking away again, making Phil thank every deity there was for his unassuming appearance.

Under the unreadable stare of the CBP agent, Phil obediently handed over their passports, nerves strung so tight he was shaking inside, and forced his lips into a bland smile. The other man gave both passports a cursory glance, eyes lingering on a few details and making Phil’s heart pound hard enough to be painful, before handing them back.

“Thank you, Mr Davis.”

The other two men’s eyes lowered to graze over Barton’s unmoving form, before sliding away, seemingly satisfied, and moving further along the aisle. Phil fought to keep his muscles locked so as not to sag in relief, using the newspaper as an excuse to hide his face. Barton’s thumb brushed him again and Phil allowed the air that had been trapped in his lungs to leave his aching chest.

*

When the CBP and the other agent finally left the carriage to move on to the next one, Phil carelessly folded the newspaper, wrinkling it beyond repair, and simply leaned his head back against his seat, breathing deeply and closing his eyes for a moment to block everything else out. He was sure that the next time he looked into a mirror, he’d find some grey hairs at his temples.

He didn’t know how long he remained like this, his every limb heavy with fatigue from the amount of adrenaline that had been coursing through his body until a few minutes ago, but it had to be much longer than he’d thought, for when he re-opened his protesting lids, the train had started moving again. Blinking to clear his vision, Phil lifted his too-heavy head and glanced down at his lap.

Barton hadn’t moved, but his eyes were closed and his brow free from the lines of concentration Phil had ached to smooth out whenever they’d appeared on his face. One of Phil’s hands had unconsciously found its way to the by now familiar place on Barton’s arm and he could feel Barton’s even breaths warming the small patch of his stomach just beneath the small pressure where Barton’s nose was still touching him.

Slowly, carefully, Phil tugged his jacket free from the hook by the window and gently draped it over Barton’s sleeping form. When he was sure that he hadn’t woken him and that he was sufficiently covered, Phil allowed his head to fall back once more, his eyes sliding shut against the fluorescence of the train.

*

The air in Toronto was sharp and much colder than in New York, making Phil grateful for his foresight of buying a warm jacket. He had changed into a clean, intact shirt before they had reached their destination and the soft woollen jumper did wonders in trapping his body heat. Huddling deeper into his jacket, Phil turned his collar up against the wind and glanced at Barton, who was trying to look normal as he stumbled alongside him with an uncharacteristic lack of grace due to his tattered boots. He had put on his grey hoodie, the bull head cracked and flaking but the words ‘Chicago Bulls’ still intact enough to be easily read. The red on the inside of the hood looked faded, making the whole thing appear even more scruffy. Even so, Phil could hardly take his eyes off him.

Barton glanced at his watch. “There won’t be any flights to Vienna until tomorrow morning. We might as well spend the night in a proper bed.”

Phil’s aching neck and stiff muscles definitely agreed with that sentiment. He was getting old, far too old to be able to sleep on a train and manage to escape without every one of his muscles aching.

Despite the late hour they found a cab that took them to the closest hotel that thankfully still had a twin room free. The receptionist looked at Barton with hearts in his eyes and Barton gave him a weak smile and a wink, before leading the way to the elevator. Phil had to look away, jaw clenching as a hot spark of jealousy tightened his chest. This was getting ridiculous.

The room was small, but clean. The beds, instead of standing on opposite sides of the room, had been moved together with only the bedside tables in-between to make room for a desk, two chairs and a cupboard that was a bit too big for the size of the room. The door to the bathroom was ajar and Phil could see from here how tiny it was, just enough to squeeze a narrow shower, a sink and a toilet in.

Barton dropped everything where he stood and all but collapsed sideways on the closest bed, his feet still touching the floor as he spread his arms. “Fuck,” he groaned. “SHIELD owes me a fucking pay-raise for all this shit.”

Phil neatly put his duffle onto one of the chairs and slid out of his jacket, trying his best not to stare at Barton’s stretched out form. “SHIELD?”

“My agency,” Barton grumbled, making it sound like a curse. “The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I know, right.” Barton sighed and, seemingly under great effort, heaved himself into an upright position again. “God, I need new shoes,” he muttered, scowling down at his boots. “These look as though they’ve been to war.”

Phil had to silently agree with that.

“It says here that there’s a morning flight to Vienna at ten,” Phil said, scrolling through the flight information on Toronto Pearson’s International Airport website. “Should be enough time to pick something up at the airport before we leave.”

Barton winced as he reached for the laces on his boots and Phil tossed his cell on the other bed, before walking over to him.

“How’re your hands?” 

Barton shrugged, turning them over for inspection. “I’ve had worse.”

“They need a disinfectant and some band-aids,” Phil knew that his voice brooked no argument, it was the same he used in the office when he needed something done. “I think I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

Not giving Barton time to protest, Phil turned and walked into the bathroom. There was indeed a first aid kit there and he successfully extracted an antiseptic cream and two XL sized band-aids. 

Barton looked uncomfortable, but obediently took a seat on the closed lid of the toilet when Phil pointed at it. Phil uncapped the cream and squeezed a generous amount onto his own fingers, before carefully taking one of Barton’s hands and spreading it across his palm.

The cream was thick, creating a slick, white barrier between Phil’s fingertips and Barton’s skin, their only point of real contact where the back of Barton’s hand touched Phil’s palm from where he was holding his hand still. Phil could feel Barton’s eyes on him and he did his best to keep his breathing even and his own eyes fixed on the task.

“Those glasses look good on you.” Barton said into the silence, his voice low and intimate.

Phil inhaled through his nose and had to wet his lips before replying. “They make me look like a geek.”

“You are a geek.” Barton grinned, his eyes bright and his voice soft and playful. “You’re into computers. And Captain America.”

Phil fought the heat that was fighting to flood his cheeks and his eyes briefly looked up from their task. “How’d you-” interrupting himself, Phil let out a sigh, before lowering his gaze once more, now certain that he must be blushing. “You saw the wallpaper.”

Barton’s grin never faltered. “And the trading cards,” he teased, though there was real interest in his voice when he continued. “They must’ve cost a fortune, not to mention taken ages to find.”

Phil gently rubbed in the last bit of cream over a long cut at the base of Barton’s left thumb. “It’a an on-going mission. The set isn’t complete yet.”

They were silent after that, Phil washing the cream from his hands in order to apply the band-aids. It was only when he was already smoothing down the edges that Barton spoke again.

“I really am sorry about your apartment.”

Phil looked up at him, surprised at the sudden change in subject. “There really wasn’t much in it.”

“Maybe, but it was your home and it’s my fault you lost it,” Barton sounded so young and dejected that it made Phil’s heart ache.

The band-aids were properly in place, there was really no reason why Phil should still be holding Barton’s hand, but he couldn’t make himself let go yet, instead giving Barton’s fingers a careful squeeze. 

“It wasn’t my home, not really,” Phil said softly, admitting to something he’d always known but never acknowledged. “I haven’t really had a proper home since I moved away from Oak Hill.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? All these assurances to his sister, his mother, Pepper…they really meant nothing. When he’d moved out of his family home to go to university, there was no room and no need, really, to take all his stuff. He’d taken his laptop, his phone and the two Captain America trading cards that he had possessed back then and after that, when he’d moved to New York and rented his first apartment, he’d told himself that there was no need to fill the place with his stuff, because he wouldn’t be staying there anyway. But then he had rented his second apartment, bigger and better, affordable after being promoted and filled it with generic furniture that looked nice, but always seemed as though he had bought the whole constellation from the display of the shop he had gotten them from.

His actual stuff, the things that were important to him - old toys and pictures with a young Pepper and endless people he still remembered the names of, but never saw - they were all still in his old room at his parents’ house. Every time Phil visited, he found both his and his sister’s room unchanged and even though his bed had gotten too small for him, he still slept there, because his sister and her husband got the guest room and his two nieces slept in his sister’s old room. His mother had often offered to give him the living room instead, where the couch could be turned into a bed, but Phil hadn’t wanted to put her through the trouble and, admittedly, would have felt like a stranger sleeping in the big living room all on his own, caged between his mother’s porcelain and his father’s model train collection.

Barton’s hands turned slightly and his fingers slowly, tentatively, curled around Phil’s, returning the squeeze. Phil shivered, could feel the tremor travelling up his arm and making his heart beat frantically in his chest. He wanted so much it _ached_ , wanted to move closer, to eradicate the space between them, but was also scared, so scared it made him breathless and froze him in place, because if he wasn’t wanted back…he didn’t know whether he would be able to take that.

Barton’s eyes were darker than usual in the dim light of the bathroom and Phil thought he could see some kind of decision there, maybe-

The shrill sound of Phil’s ringtone cut through the moment like a knife, making Phil startle and reel back slightly. The connection was broken, their hands no longer touching and Barton looked away.

“You should probably get that,” his voice was still low, almost bitter.

Phil was reeling, having no idea what the hell just happened. He could do nothing but give a jerky nod, before hastily exiting the small space and hurrying to his phone.

*

“Where the hell are you?” Pepper’s voice was sharp, angrier than he’d heard it in a long time, but Phil could hear the underlying concern. “You said you’d need to stay at my place for a while, but you didn’t tell me it was because _your apartment got blown up_!”

Phil sighed, quickly turning words over in his head. He didn’t want to lie to her, but telling her the truth wasn’t an option either. “I’m alright,” is what he finally settled on, trying to sound as calm and soothing as he could. “I’ll be away for a while, but I promise I’m okay.”

“This isn’t like you, Phil,” Pepper said, her voice fiercely controlled, but Phil could hear the strain in it. “What happened? Are you in trouble? Do you need me to get you from somewhere? Do you need money?”

Phil leaned back against the wall, the corridor thankfully empty. A light flickered above him, weak flashes of brightness as the bulb fought to stay lit but seemed to fail every time. Pepper was right, it wasn’t like him. None of this was. So why, then, did he feel so _good_ doing it?

Yes, he’d been scared, _terrified_ even, his nerves wrecked and his insides shaking. But the running, the hiding, _Barton_ \- all of it, it had felt _amazing_. As if he’d been alive for the first time, as if there was _more_ to life than the ever dragging monotony Phil had struggled through these past years. It was dangerous and he loved it, had already started craving the rush and the implications of that made Phil feel as though he had opened his eyes and was actually _seeing_ for the first time in his life.

He might not need to be running from the law and he certainly didn’t crave being shot at, but he wanted a small edge of danger, something to spark his instincts and make him feel the rush of adrenaline. He wanted to be kept on his toes, wanted his heart to race and his mind to strain firing solutions at him. He wanted fast and hard and _more._ More than he’d had up to now, at the very least. The thought alone of returning to his bland, _boring_ office made his skin crawl. Barton had ruined him, it seemed. Ruined but at the same time saved him from himself somehow.

“No, Pepper,” he said, fatigue weighing heavily on his every limb. He felt drained, both physically and emotionally. “I don’t need anything. I told you, I’m fine.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to tell your sister?” Pepper’s voice was sharp, but ever fraying along the edges. “Abbey and your mother have been going out of their heads worrying. Your apartment blown up and you nowhere to be found! What did you think that would do to us?”

Phil rubbed a hand over his face, knowing that nothing he could say would be enough right now. There was nothing he _could_ say.

“I’m sorry.” And he was. He loved his family, but they’d always had a hard time understanding him and at some point Phil had stopped trying.

There was a rush at the other end as Pepper exhaled heavily. Phil didn’t put it past her to know exactly what he was thinking. She was the only one that had ever accepted all his quirks without question, taken his bland exterior, his apparent boredom, while at the same time knowing that he liked to toe the line of legality with his hacking late at night and only ever smiled at his helpless fascination with Captain America.

“Me too,” she said softly. “I told you mother you’re fine, by the way. She called me earlier, but you know what work’s been like lately. I spent all day trying to keep Tony from flying apart, while Stane breathed down both our necks. Tony finally told me what happened. Last week, someone’s managed to steal something from his lab at the mansion and he’s been going crazy trying to figure out the security breach. They got the authorities on it, but they still haven’t gotten it back.”

Phil, glad for the change of topic even if it made his head ache a little more, frowned. “Stolen what?”

Pepper exhaled again and this time Phil could hear how shaky it was, how her voice trembled from the amount of pressure she must’ve been under worrying about Phil, Stark and the company simultaneously. He felt like utter shit, having contributed to that.

“I don’t know, Tony won’t tell me. But it’s something important,” she swallowed. “Something dangerous.”

*

Phil tried to be quiet when he re-entered the now darkened room, but he could feel Barton’s eyes following him without being able to see them.

“Everything okay?” Barton asked quietly.

“Yeah,” even to his own ears, Phil didn’t quite sound convinced, so he swallowed and tried again. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

He crossed the room, barely avoided stubbing his toe, before fumbling for his phone-charger, muttering a curse when he dropped it and had to fish it out from under the bed. His hands were slightly unsteady with exhaustion and it took three tries to get the cable into the port.

“Was it your sister?”

Phil stripped off his clothes and, left in only his undershirt and boxer-briefs, slid between the cold sheets. They were thankfully just as clean as the rest of the room, smelling of cheap detergent, but freshly laundered.

“It was my best friend,” he answered, turning onto his side and facing Barton, even though he could hardly make out more than a faint silhouette. “She’s having some trouble at work.”

Barton shifted slightly and made a low, humming noise in reply. It was oddly soothing. “I used your laptop to book us tickets for tomorrow. We’re on the morning flight, so you’d better try and get some sleep.”

Phil could already feel himself being pulled under, his brain already shutting down and his eyes closing. 

“Good night,” he mumbled, his own voice sounding far away.

Something brushed against his brow, feather soft and almost not there at all, and Phil was sure he was already dreaming even as he faintly caught the answering whisper. “Good night.”

*

Pearson Airport was busy, but nothing compared to what Phil was used to from JFK. They had dropped off their bags and Barton’s guitar-case and were left with enough time to grab a bite to eat and find a shop where Barton could buy himself a new pair of shoes. Phil was just finishing his second cup of coffee, when Barton emerged from the shop with a dark expression on his face.

“Someone somewhere’s laughing so hard right now,” Barton grumbled, scowling down at his purple Converse, most likely the last pair still available in his size.

Phil pressed his lips together, but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “So, what’s the joke?”

“Purple was my colour in the circus.” Barton’s scowl, if possible, deepened. “At least they’re not sparkly.”

At that, Phil did laugh.

*

“I think I preferred Toronto,” Barton grumbled and Phil had to silently agree.

Vienna, if possible, was even more miserable than Toronto. It was sheeting down rain when they touched down and Phil wondered why Barton and his associate couldn’t have picked somewhere with better weather. Everything seemed to be grey here, from the dismal weather to the sky and even the people.

The airport seemed tiny compared to New York and even though there were people around, it didn’t feel busy. It only took half the time it usually did to get their bags and the arrival hall seemed tiny. They easily found their way to the bus that would take them directly to Vienna’s city centre and Barton used Google Maps on Phil’s cell to determine the exact location of the hotel he’d apparently agreed on with his associate.

They were sitting near the front of the bus and Phil could hear the radio playing some song that had dropped out of the US charts weeks ago. Even though the ride took only about twenty minutes, Phil was absolutely fascinated at the bad lighting of the motorway and the lack of high-rise buildings. Even in the city centre the highest building seemed to have only ten floors and everything looked older and less bright than he was used to. There wasn’t a digital billboard in sight and the people seemed relaxed, strolling about as though they had no care in the world.

The hotel they finally stopped at was tucked away in a back-alley and looked as inconspicuous as they come. Barton completely threw him by opening a conversation with the receptionist in fluent German, of which he merely got the last word as Barton thanked her with a _Danke_.

They took the time to deposit their bags and Barton’s guitar-case in their room, before making their way to the one where Barton’s associate was staying. He didn’t know what he should’ve expected when they found the right door and entered the room, but a gun in the face really wasn’t it. The woman holding it looked young, younger even than Barton, but lethal, beautiful in an utterly dangerous way and with an expression cold enough to make the blood freeze in your veins. Phil’s vision was mostly obscured as Barton stepped in front of him, shielding him from the woman and raising his hands as though in surrender.

“Barton?” her voice was as cold as her expression, but she lowered her gun, only to scowl deeply. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry, it took a bit longer than expected,” Barton shrugged, as though being threatened with a gun was something that happened every day. Then again, with his job description, it probably did.

“Yes, I noticed,” she snapped, putting the safety back on with a deft move of her delicate fingers and stepping aside to let them enter properly. Phil was relieved when he watched her sliding the gun back into the holster under her leather jacket. “And who the hell is that?” She gave a sharp nod in Phil’s direction and Phil successfully battled the urge of recoiling slightly at the distaste on her pretty face.

“That’s Coulson.” Barton glanced at him, as though he needed to check whether Phil was still there, his protective stance unchanged. “He kind of got dragged into this.”

The woman’s green eyes narrowed, her wild red hair untamed and spilling over her shoulders. “A civilian?” she bit out, sounding for all the world as though she wanted to strangle Barton, or both of them. There was the faintest trace of an accent when she spoke, so well masked it was almost impossible to pick it out. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Barton’s shoulders tightened slightly and Phil took a measured step to the side, wanting to see Barton’s face. “It wasn’t his fault,” Barton said, glaring at her, sounding defensive.

She gave him a look a Queen might give a peasant. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” She folded her arms in front of her chest. “How the hell you ever passed your final field exam is beyond me.”

Phil bit his tongue to keep from speaking and watched Barton’s expression darken, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Think you can get smart with me?” Barton asked and Phil shivered slightly at the dangerous note in his voice. “Let’s not forget that without me you’d most likely be dead. I saved your ass, Natasha and you know it, so don’t give me that shit! I’m not one of your brainwashed idiots that you can order around.”

“I’m aware,” the woman - Natasha - glared back, but her tone had softened slightly, as had the tightness of her jaw. “But while you were busy traipsing all over New York, some HYDRA goons found me out and took the fucking plans.”

Barton’s jaw actually fell open at that, anger seemingly forgotten as he gave Natasha a wide-eyed look. When he spoke, however, there was a faint trace of mockery in his tone, as though he couldn’t keep from getting one over Natasha for her comment about his supposed shortcomings. “What? How’s that even possible? The Black Widow, outsmarted? Did they send a whole army to incapacitate you?”

Natasha’s glare hardened, her jaw tensing again and Phil briefly wondered what he’d do if they started punching each other. “Very funny, Barton, you’re hilarious,” she bit out, steel in her voice. “They had tranquillisers.” 

“Seriously?” Barton looked ready to laugh at her, but wisely reigned himself in when Natasha sent him a warning look. Sobering, Barton cleared his throat. “And they left you alive?”

At Barton’s obvious show of restraint, the line of Natasha’s shoulders relaxed slightly and the tight grip she’d had on her arms, eased. “They underestimated my tolerance of drugs.” Her smirk, if possible, was almost scarier than her glare. “I managed to get away, but I didn’t have time to get the plans back.”

Barton cursed colourfully under his breath and Phil had rarely felt more out of place than in that moment, watching Barton take a few agitated steps back and forth, before coming to a halt once more. Phil leaned back against the closed door, trying to not draw attention to himself.

Barton rubbed a hand over his face, before running it through his hair and making it stand up even more. “Do we know where they’re now?”

Natasha shook her head. “I can’t be sure. What I do know is that the guy in charge of the operation, Albert Lichtenthal, is throwing some fancy party on his boat tonight.”

Barton frowned. “Boat?”

Natasha shrugged and for the first time Phil thought he could see something like exhaustion in the way she held herself, the faint shadows of circles beneath her eyes. “It’s supposed to start here and then head over to Budapest. I think HYDRA may have a base there. I was hoping you’d get your ass here in time, it would’ve been a bit of a challenge doing it on my own.”

Barton scowled, looking anything but thrilled at the prospect of parading around some fancy event under the nose of their enemy. Phil couldn’t agree more. “Invitations?”

“Already taken care of,” she said, pointing at two sky-blue envelopes with a cheesy silver lining on the table to their left. “You’re lucky I got two and that each invite allows for a plus one, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to take your new friend.”

The way she said _friend_ almost made Phil blush, the word so heavy with insinuation that he had to look away for a moment.

“We need to get him a suit, though,” Natasha added, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth again, when she noticed Phil’s reaction.

Not one to be easily intimidated, Phil refused to give Natasha the satisfaction of falling for her baits. “I’ve got a suit,” Phil said in his usual calm and even tone. It was the fist time he had spoken since they entered the room and he forced himself to appear relaxed, his expression placid. He wanted to make it clear that even though he was a civilian, he wasn’t about to let himself be manipulated. “It could use some dry-cleaning, but other than that it should do.”

Natasha looked slightly surprised and Phil thought that his meaning had successfully been received. When her lips curved again, it looked closer to a smile than the sharp smirk from before and Phil felt as though he had passed some sort of test.

“You know- Coulson was it?” Phil nodded, although he doubted her mind was that feeble. “You might not be so bad. The hotel has dry-cleaning, so that shouldn’t be a problem. The event starts at eight, so we’ll meet at ten past downstairs in the lobby, no need to arrive early, the boat won’t head off till ten. I suggest you get some rest, we’ve got a big night ahead of us.”

Obviously dismissed, Barton took the time to roll his eyes and give Natasha a mock-salute, which was met with only another withering glare, before herding Phil out the door.

*

“You’re right,” Phil said as he sank down on his bed, absently rubbing the back of his neck where the ache of both the train ride and the almost eight hour flight to Vienna still lingered. “She’s terrifying.”

Barton laughed, that low sweet sound that made Phil shiver inside. “Told you.”

He gently kicked his guitar-case out of the way, before dropping down on the bed opposite Phil in a sprawl that managed to look sexy in a completely unassuming way. Phil looked away, swallowing around his suddenly dry throat.

“How did you end up working together?” he asked, thinking of Natasha and trying to imagine her teaming up with anyone.

Barton shifted, partly raising himself to rest his head in the palm of his right hand, the fingers of his left absently picking at the sheet. “SHIELD sent me to taker her out, but I made a different call.”

Phil looked at him properly, then. “Why?”

Barton shrugged, his eyes doing that thing where they shifted away and refused to stay at one point too long. “Because she wanted out. People shouldn’t get trapped by other people, it’s not right. We should all have enough room to decide how we want to live our lives and a chance to right some wrongs. Sitwell offered me the chance when he recruited me and I wanted to offer her the same.”

Moving back slightly, Phil let himself rest against the cold wall behind him and bent his knees to rest his elbows there. “Would he not have understood that?”

Barton seemed to seriously consider the question for a moment. “I think he would have,” he said then, thoughtfully. “But there wasn't enough time. We think there's a rat in SHIELD. There's really no other way for HYDRA to have known about the plans. When they got stolen it became an international issue - that's how SHIELD got involved in the first place. But it was top secret information. My clearance wasn't even high enough to know about it until Sitwell gave me the mission. I saw Stark, though, when he came to HQ. He looked about ready to lose it.”

Phil’s spine stiffened, mind reeling as something clicked into place. “Stark?” he asked, eyes intent on Barton’s face. “The plans are Stark’s? The ones that got stolen from his mansion?”

A small line appeared between Barton’s eyes. “How did you know they got stolen from his mansion?”

“My best friend, Pepper. She’s his PA.”

Barton’s eyes widened slightly and he sat up in one, fluid motion. It was the same expression he’d worn before whenever Phil had managed to surprise him. “Pepper as in _Virginia Potts_? She’s your best friend?”

Phil gave a nod and watched Barton rub a hand over his face, mumbling something into his palm that might have been ‘Jesus’.

“She told me about it the other night, that Stark was frantic trying to find the security breach. She said she thinks that whatever got stolen is dangerous.”

Barton sighed, lowering his hand and suddenly looked exhausted. “It is. Very dangerous, especially in the hands of an organisation like HYDRA. But they didn’t have the intel to steal the plans, I doubt they even knew they existed.”

Phil frowned, trying to follow and putting everything together in his head. “So who stole them, if not HYDRA?”

“One of Stark's own. And then he hired Natasha so that she could bargain with HYDRA. Clever move it was, too. Now no one knows who’s actually at fault for the whole thing and it would’ve all turned out great for him if Natasha hadn’t found out what he was actually supposed to sell.”

Phil thought of Natasha, fierce and cold. “I take it she didn’t agree with it?”

“Not in the slightest.” Barton shook his head, the beginning of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She played along right until she had the plans and then tried to make a run for it. I was supposed to take her out at the transaction and get the plans off her, but…well obviously that didn’t go quite as planned.”

“What about Sitwell?” Phil asked, thinking of all the things Barton had told him about the other agent.

Barton shrugged, looking suddenly vulnerable and slightly lost. “I have no idea. As soon as we’ve got the plans back I’ll contact him and tell him everything. I just hope he’ll believe me.”

“He will,” Phil said firmly.

Barton smiled at him, though it looked pained. “You’ve said that before. I’d love to have your conviction.”

Phil shook his head. “You’re loyal. He’s a fool if he can’t see that. You’re risking everything for this mission.”

“So are you.” Barton looked at him, eyes sharp and penetrating. “All this time, ever since I dragged you into this, you’ve stuck with me even though you have no reason to trust me. Why?”

Phil looked away, feeling painfully exposed under Barton’s intent gaze. “Because I do,” Phil said softly. “Trust you, I mean. I don’t know why, but I do.”

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with meaning and Phil’s chest felt tight. He risked a glance at Barton, but he hadn’t moved, his body locked into the same position as before, an almost stunned expression on his face.

When Barton finally spoke, it was quiet and halting, as though he was still unsure how to respond. “Thank you. That-” He looked down at his hands, before raising his eyes back to Phil’s, his expression unusually open. “That means a lot, actually. People tend to do the opposite.”

Phil held his gaze, feeling the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

“Clint,” Barton said - sudden, almost rushed - eyes dark and vulnerable. “My name. It’s Clint.”

Phil wished they weren’t so far apart, the urge to touch so strong it was almost a physical ache. “Phil.”

Clint grinned at him, bright and easy, taking years off him and reminding Phil of how young he really was. “So that’s what the P stands for.”

Phil thought of all the unopened mail in his apartment, now sure that it had been Clint’s source for his name in the first place. “I’m sure you could’ve found that out a lot sooner if you’d wanted to.” Phil raised an eyebrow at him, even though his lips were still curled into an ever widening smile. “Isn’t that what they teach you in agent-school?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, farm-boy?” The insult was an old one, but Clint’s eyes were warm and his smile soft when he said it, and it was as though all the other times someone had thrown those words at Phil had suddenly been washed away, leaving only this behind.

Phil shook his head, his smile giving him away even as he played along. “Anything you come up with, I’ll have heard it before.”

“Oh, really?” Clint grinned, eyes bright. “We’ll have to see about that.”


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

_Sitwell looked at him from behind his desk and Clint hoped that his handler would finally give him something to do. If he had to spend another day in the range, shooting at the same boring targets, he might actually go crazy._

_“I’ve got a mission for you,” Sitwell finally said, holding out a folder that Clint accepted automatically._

_He glanced at it, only to have an all too familiar face staring back at him. “The Black Widow?” Clint looked at Sitwell, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. “I thought Fury had decided not to pursue her.”_

_Sitwell sighed, looking more tired than Clint had ever seen him, and pinched the back of his nose. “He did, but now she’s stolen something of great value and we can’t take another risk. She’s become too dangerous. We need to take her out.”_

_Clint tossed the file back onto Sitwell’s desk, doubting that it held anymore information than he was already familiar with. The Black Widow was almost a legend, fast, smart and_ lethal _. No one that had gotten too close to her actually survived long enough to tell the tale, and if there were any, then there were no records of them._

_“Take her out,” Clint repeated, torn between laughing in Sitwell’s face and asking him whether they had all lost their minds. “You can’t be serious.”_

_“Believe me, I’m dead serious,” his handler leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “We need to get back what she’s taken. If HYDRA gets those plans, they’ll gain the sort of leverage that will make us vulnerable beyond belief. Director Fury has issued the order that they must be retrieved by any means necessary and we both know the likelihood of the Black Widow actually giving them up willingly.”_

_Clint remained silent for a moment, turning over the information in his head, but there was just no angle where he could see this ending well. A feeling of foreboding was already spreading in his stomach, reaching out cold fingers that slowly made their way up his spine. He knew better than to doubt his instincts, they had saved him too many times in his life._

_“What did she take?”_

_If possible, Sitwell looked even more tired now, almost defeated. “Secret plans for a Stark missile.”_

_The feeling of dread spreading through Clint’s body had just gotten ten times worse._

_*_

Albert Lichtenthal certainly knew how to throw a party. The boat was the brightest thing in the area, all around people stopped to look at it with awe, obviously unused to seeing something this extravagant in the murky waters of the _Donaukanal_.

Natasha had re-located Clint’s gear into a sleek, black cello-case and her own stuff, which consisted mostly of guns and tasers, was neatly packed away in a compact Louis Vitton suitcase, complete with a lining that prevented scanners from detecting what was actually inside. The man who took their invites hardly glanced at their stuff, too blinded by Natasha to care about anything else.

Even Phil, who had no straight bone in his body, had to admit that Natasha looked absolutely devastating in her emerald silk-gown. The front was held together by a ring of what looked like diamonds, which extended to her neck to hold it in place there. A glimpse of pale flesh between her breasts was visible and sometimes, when she walked, one of her thighs was exposed as the cleverly-hidden slit was revealed. Her long, red hair had been done in a way that left her face free, but still made it cascade over her back. Along with her glamorous, but tasteful make-up, she looked like royalty.

Their bags and the cello-case were taken by another helpful staff-member, whose eyes seemed permanently glued to Natasha’s breasts. She rolled her eyes, but didn’t comment, instead neatly sliding the arm that wasn’t busy holding her glittering clutch through Phil’s. She smelled faintly of lilies.

“That’s him over there,” she told him softy, discretely nodding in the direction where a bigger group of people was standing, all of them with pretentious smiles on their faces. “The one with the glasses.”

Tall and thin as a rail, Lichtenthal stood out from the rest of the group. He was wearing a smoking jacket, which sharply contrasted with his pale skin and white-blond hair, his eyes watery blue and sharp behind his frameless, unobtrusive glasses. He looked ridiculously like a text-book villain.

“I need a drink if I’m supposed to survive this,” Clint said from his other side and Phil’s lips quirked up without him meaning to.

Clint caught him and grinned back at him.

“When you’re done flirting, it’d be good to mingle a bit,” Natasha interrupted, sending unbidden heat into Phil’s cheeks.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Clint muttered moodily, before complying and leading them further into the throng.

*

Lichtenthal had gone to great pains to keep his partly scantily dressed guests from freezing in the cold night breeze by scattering an enormous amount of small metal boxes around the decks, which radiated heat. Even so, the majority of the party was happening inside, where the live band played an admittedly tasteful variety of songs. Keeping well away from the alcohol, because he knew he had no head for it, Phil had grabbed a glass of orange juice and was unsuccessfully trying to merge with the velvet curtain that had been pulled back from a massive window.

To say that it was tiresome would be an understatement. Phil had always hated these kinds of events, even if his experience consisted merely of a few Christmas parties from work and several fundraisers were Pepper had forced him to be her date. She always told him that it got better with time, but Phil had yet to see that.

He didn’t know how to smoothly interact with people outside of work, especially not strangers, and he thought that keeping out of the way would probably be best. Natasha had successfully dragged Clint around the room, randomly joining into conversations and looking for all the world as though she belonged there. Some young, handsome guy that looked arrogant to the bone, and held a distant resemblance to Lichtenthal, was just leading her onto the dance-floor for a fox-trot and Phil winced inwardly in sympathy. He could just imagine the type of conversation that the guy was forcing upon her.

“Oh my god, I’m glad he didn’t talk to me,” Clint said softly, suddenly appearing at Phil’s side and for the first time not making him jump. He was getting used to this. “If he’d opened his mouth in my presence I think I would’ve punched him.”

“Who is he?” Phil asked, leaning slightly closer to Clint as he lowered his voice.

Clint turned his head, putting his lips closer to Phil’s ear. “Lichtenthal’s nephew. He’s been cruising Natasha all night. I’m almost waiting for him and his uncle to have a good old fashioned duel. They obviously have the same taste in women - is it just me, or is that kinda creepy?”

True enough, Lichtenthal was looking none too pleased as he followed his nephew’s pursuit with Natasha across the dance floor.

“Definitely creepy.”

Clint let out a quiet, amused huff, his warm breath brushing against Phil’s ear and cheek and making him shiver slightly. “I was thinking of using that as a distraction, but I haven’t quite figured out how yet. I need to get into his room to sniff around a bit, I’m pretty sure he’s got information about the base there, but he’s been watching me a bit too closely for my liking. I don’t want to risk suddenly disappearing.”

Phil turned his attention back to the dance floor, watching as Lichtenthal’s nephew twirled Natasha, pressing in close. There wasn’t a hint of discomfort on Natasha’s face, but her green gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. He looked back at Lichtenthal across the room, where he was clutching a champaign glass hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Phil turned back to Clint, careful to keep his voice low. “I have an idea.”

Clint looked at him. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Phil allowed himself a small grin. “I’ll give you a distraction, but you’ll have to be quick. I don’t know how long it’ll hold his attention.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Phil gave Clint a placid smile, but he knew his eyes were anything but. “Make them forget all about you.”

Before Clint could ask another question, Phil had put down his glass and was making his way towards the band. He neatly dodged several champagne glasses and quickly made a request for the next song, before spotting Natasha and trying to look as casual as possible as he walked up to her. Lichtenthal’s nephew was still holding onto her, though it was obvious his focus had shifted away from dancing.

“Do you mind if I cut in?” Phil asked, smoothly interrupting whatever mating-call the other man was currently attempting.

Two pairs of eyes turned to him. The nephew looked ready to punch Phil in the face, but Natasha’s expression immediately brightened. 

“Phil,” she addressed him warmly, as though they had known each other for years. A current of relief in her tone.

Phil couldn’t tell if it was an act or actually genuine, but when she easily twisted out of the nephew’s hold and accepted Phil’s formally offered hand, he guessed it was probably a mixture of both. Somewhere behind them, the intro of the tango Phil had chosen started playing and Natasha, her face now hidden from the annoying nephew, gave Phil that particular sharp smirk of hers that let him know that she’d already caught on. She let herself be drawn closer to easily fall into position against him. 

They took the first two steps, Phil carefully leading her past the seething nephew, and it was exactly what he had expected, only that it wasn’t. Phil had known that Natasha would be just as adept at dancing as she surely was at everything else, but he hadn’t thought she would so easily give up control to him.

The tango was a tricky dance, its successful execution based mostly on the ability to concentrate on the motions of your body and to trust the other partner enough to attune to them. Phil was used to the familiar feel of his sister following his every move without question and achieving a level of comfortability that was born purely from spending so much time together and constantly watching the other grow and develop. A dance often failed from the very beginning, because of awkwardness or lack of feeling.

With Natasha it was different, of course it was, but she was smooth and soft, accepting his lead with grace, but without it appearing passionless. She didn’t falter when Phil lifted or dipped her and her grip on his remained sure, but not frantic as though she was afraid he would drop her.

Out if the corner of Phil’s eyes, he saw that Clint was nowhere to be seen and that Lichtenthal had stopped any pretence of conversation and was now openly staring at Natasha, just as Phil had hoped he would. It was the reason why he had chosen one of the more provocative dances, knowing that Natasha probably looked like pure sex with her red hair flying and her slender body rhythmically twisting into a series of complicated moves.

Obviously having noticed as much, Natasha upped her performance by neatly curling her leg around Phil’s hip, the hidden slit in her dress parting to reveal her long, slender leg. Suppressing a laugh at the nearly comical expression on Lichtenthal’s face, Phil helped it along by smoothly dipping her to reveal the graceful stretch of her neck, before drawing her back up and twirling her away from his body.

When the tango ended a moment later, they smoothly fell into the rhythm of the next song, a much less vigorous piece, and Natasha wrapped her arms around Phil’s neck to have an excuse to speak softly to him. 

“I think that actually worked,” she murmured, a smile in her voice that could only be described as devilish. “I’m really starting to like you, Coulson. I shouldn’t have underestimated Barton’s taste.”

Phil accommodated her new position, both of his hands falling to her waist as he followed her show of being seductive. “We met completely by accident.”

Natasha raised a perfectly plucked eye-brow at him. “But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Phil watched the nephew looking ready to climb a wall in frustration and absently let one of his hands move up to touch the bare skin of Natasha’s back, where the cut of her dress allowed it. “He didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

Leaning in even closer, Natasha pressed their cheeks together. “Didn’t he?”

Phil remained silent, didn’t know what to say. This was definitely not the time to ponder such questions.

“Oh my god,” Natasha almost groaned, voice still just above a whisper by his ear. “I think he’s actually coming over here. I don’t think I can stomach him again so soon, I’m scared I’ll lose it and break his neck. Let’s go outside. Barton should be done by now.”

Phil let her grab his hand and watched her plucking her glittery clutch out of a waiting waiter’s hands, before leading Phil outside of the stuffy ballroom. The wind outside was cold, but fresh, and Phil gratefully inhaled air that wasn’t laced with a hundred different flowery perfumes.

They walked in silence for a moment, rounding a corner and passing a group of security men that were lounging against the wall, telling each other crude jokes. Natasha looked at them, just as one of them looked did the same and both froze at the same time.

“Hey,” the guy said, a frown building on his brow where Phil detected a band-aid stuck just under his hairline. “Aren’t you- You _are_!”

And just like that, everything went to hell. Phil neatly dodged a fist that had been meant for his nose and watched Natasha grab one of the goon’s by the throat, while kicking another one that had approached her from the side, before then taking out both of them with three more blows, heels and all. Another thug approached and Phil danced out of his reach, watching as a perfectly aimed high-heel hit him square in the forehead to distract him enough for Phil to land a punch of his own, before kicking him in one of his knee-caps. The goon groaned, but remained upright - only to receive an elbow to his temple and fall over like a sack of potatoes.

Clint smirked at him. “Sorry, I’m a bit late to the party.”

Natasha huffed, having just strangled a man twice her size and mass with her thighs, and landed neatly in a crouch next to them, her green dress fanning out on the floor with barely a wrinkle in it. 

“Party’s over, Barton,” she straightened herself, a few inches shorter now that her heels were absent, and swept a wayward strand of hair over her shoulder. “Did you find anything?”

Clint stepped over the fallen goon and came to stand beside Phil, handing back Natasha’s shoe as he answered. “There’s a base right at the docks, disguised as a warehouse of all things.” Clint rolled his eyes, but his expression darkened slightly at his next words. “And there _is_ a rat in SHIELD. His name’s Carlyle Pallis, he’s the head of SHIELD’s Security Internal Department.”

“Knew it,” Natasha muttered, sliding back into her shoes, before snapping open her clutch and looking at the watch she had stuffed into it. “Okay, we’re due to dock in about thirty minutes, so if we hide those idiots here then that should give us enough time to officially get off the boat before anyone notices anything.”

Phil eyed the fallen goons, his muscles already protesting at the thought of having to lift them, let alone carrying them somewhere, but there was no other option. Clint looked equally unenthusiastic, but one stern look from Natasha had them both bending down and grabbing an arm each of the closest guy.

They found an unlocked maintenance room to deposit the five unconscious goons and Phil tried his best to straighten his suit as they made their way back to the party. Once inside, Natasha accepted another invitation to dance, thankfully from someone other than Lichtenthal or his nephew, and Clint casually took a fresh glass from a passing waiter’s tray as though they had all the time in the world.

“So when you said dancing lessons, I thought a few lessons learning some lame waltzes or something,” Clint said, suddenly. “But what you did there with Natasha…that was…”

Phil raised an eyebrow, feeling a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“Just,” Clint shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes. “Really fucking awesome.”

“Thank you,” Phil tired his best to reign in his pleased smile, but only partly succeeded as a burst of pride swelled in his chest. “Turns out I really liked it once I tried it and my sister’s husband hates dancing, so whenever there’s a family thing she makes me fill in.”

“She must be really lucky to have you.” Clint looked sad all of a sudden, as though his thoughts were a million miles away, trapped by painful memories.

Somewhere behind Phil, the song changed from a mambo to a slow waltz and Phil made his decision quickly, the way he never usually dared, not giving himself time to think as he swiftly took the glass from Clint’s hand and put it aside, before stepping in close. Close enough to feel Clint’s warm breath on his face and see his eyes widen a fraction in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Steeling his resolve, Phil smoothly slid an arm around Clint’s slim waist and found the hand that was still suspended in mid-air with his own, catching it in a secure grasp and holding it at the correct angle. “Dancing’s really not that hard once you know the basics,” Phil didn’t feel nearly as calm as he sounded and hoped Clint couldn’t feel the racing beat of his heart.

Clint’s other hand found his shoulder, his fingers curling into his suit-jacket, actually holding on instead of just resting it there, as though he needed to feel anchored. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, sounding nervous and unsure, his eyes looking anywhere but at Phil’s.

Feeling Clint’s tense muscles beneath his hands, Phil gently stroked a small, soothing circle against his back. “Just let me lead.”

Clint let out the breath in his lungs and relaxed slightly. He leaned in closer, hesitantly swaying along with the music and shuffling his feet alongside Phil’s. It was funny that someone as naturally graceful as Clint, could be so intimidated by dancing. Even so, Phil could tell that he had a natural feeling for rhythm and wondered for the first time if the guitar he’d been carrying around was actually more than just a front. 

“See, not so bad is it?”

Clint huffed, but his grip had loosened and he gently run his thumb along Phil’s where their hands touched. “I don’t see the point. It’s kinda unnatural. At least on a tightrope or something you’re trying not to fall off.”

“Tightrope?” Phil couldn’t quite hide the alarm in his voice. “I thought your act was to shoot arrows?”

Smiling, Clint let Phil carefully twirl him once under his arm, before pressing in close again. “Just hitting targets isn’t enough. It would’ve bored people to tears. I needed to be doing something else while shooting to make it interesting.”

“Like walking on a tightrope,” Phil could hear the incredulity colouring his own voice.

“Or standing on a horse.” Clint shrugged, as though it wasn’t a big deal. “Competition was big. Carson had us doing all sorts of crap. Even had to do the trapeze a few times when one of the acrobats got injured.”

Phil thought of Clint, clearly not properly trained for that particular performance, launching himself through the air 20 feet above the ground and felt his stomach turn over. “I’m glad you’re not there anymore,” Phil said quietly, knowing that even though Clint’s current job wasn’t that much safer, at least people didn’t put his life on the line so carelessly.

“Me too.”

They were very close now, the hand that had rested on Phil’s shoulder now warm against the back of his neck and Clint’s breath hot on Phil’s face, brushing over his lips at every exhale. Phil could see the tiny flecks of brown in Clint’s eyes, making them appear even sharper and more extraordinary. Clint’s fingers shifted, the very tips inching upwards and brushing against the nape of Phil’s neck, right at the hairline, making Phil shiver.

Somewhere to their right, a woman let out a high-pitched laugh, shattering the moment and abruptly reminding Phil where they were. He saw Clint blink, before ducking his head and removing his hand, hastily taking a small step back to put some distance between them. He pressed his lips together and quickly slid up the cuff of his right sleeve to glance at the watch on his wrist.

“It’s almost time.” Clint looked up at him through his lashes, licking his lips. “I’m just…gonna go get Natasha.”

Phil cleared his throat and nodded, his hand briefly fiddling with his tie and tightening it to give himself something to do. Clint hesitated for another moment, looking torn, but then nodded as well and moved past. Phil wasn’t sure if he imagined the hand brushing his, but his skin tingled anyway, his chest tight with desire.

Looking away to compose himself, Phil took a deep breath and walked a few steps closer to the open balcony door leading out onto the deck. The air was cool and refreshing, taking some of the haze away and making Phil’s brain sharpen and move back to the task at hand. There would be time for all of this - whatever this with Clint was - afterwards. At least, that’s what Phil told himself - that’s what he desperately hoped.

If he hadn’t been so preoccupied thinking about Clint, Phil might have noticed the man creeping up behind his back, but as it was, he only noticed the other’s presence when a thin needle was thrust into the back of his neck.

“You should tell your agent-boyfriend not to leave you on your own in places like this, Mr Davis,” a dark voice laced with a German accent murmured into his ear. “Or should I call you Mr Coulson?”

Phil’s vision blurred as dizziness crashed into him, making his head swim. He stumbled on the spot, but the man behind him grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip, probably looking to outsiders as though he was simply helping a fellow party guest who’d had too much to drink.

Phil opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his mouth had already gone slack and unresponsive. The man’s grip on him tightened and he manoeuvred Phil out onto deck and around the corner, out of sight from either Clint or Natasha. His knees gave in and more hands were suddenly gripping him, but Phil was already too far gone, darkness swallowing him down and taking him over.

*

Phil woke stiff and freezing, feeling like death. His head was fuzzy, as though someone had stuffed it full of cotton-wool and his temples were throbbing. Phil’s mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his throat felt rubbed raw.

There was hardly any light penetrating the room, which, at closer inspections, turned out to be more of a cell than anything else. Stomach roiling, Phil needed three attempts to even raise himself onto his elbows, cold, hard stone digging into his bones. He closed his eyes for a moment, before forcing them open again and heaving himself into an upright position.

Phil shivered, flexing his fingers and trying to move his limbs to get his blood flowing, but they were so stiff with cold that every little motion hurt. Just as Phil contemplated trying to stand in order to put more distance between himself and the cold stone floor, the single door of the cell opened and in stepped none other than Dr Albert Lichtenthal himself.

In the small, confined space and with Phil sitting on the floor, Lichtenthal looked even taller than he had at the party. He had changed out of his smoking and was wearing dark trousers and a beige, classic Burberry trench-coat with the collar turned up against the cold.

“So happy you could join us, Mr Coulson,” Lichtenthal said, his German accent faint, but present enough to give every one of his words a sharp edge. His lips were thin and looked even thinner when he gave Phil a nasty smile. “I wish I could offer you more comfortable accommodations, but I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”

Phil said nothing, not intending to let himself be goaded into speaking. He carefully bent his aching legs and painstakingly rose to his feet. He was not going to do this with that bastard looming over him like a smug, overgrown scarecrow.

“You have spirit, I see.” Lichtenthal chuckled as though just having told a joke. “Not for long, I should think. SHIELD must be severely losing its touch if it trains agents to take civilians along for the ride. I clearly overestimated Barton, but alas, he’s still quite young and not very bright, so I should have expected that.”

Phil gritted his teeth, making his head throb even more, but refusing to give Lichtenthal the satisfaction of riling him up. For some reason, this seemed to amuse Lichtenthal even further.

“My, my, Barton certainly knows how to pick them. But tell me, Mr Coulson, what do you see in him? I wouldn’t think he’s quite on your intellectual level,” Lichtenthal went on pleasantly, as though they were having a friendly chat over tea. “But then again, I suppose you don’t keep him for his brains. A lot can be said about Barton, but he does have a nice arse.”

Phil bit his tongue, hard. He tried to turn out Lichtenthal’s words, but he lacked the focus and something about the other man’s obnoxious presence made it hard to keep from listening.

“Did you know,” Lichtenthal seemed completely undeterred by Phil’s lack of response and Phil had never wanted to hit someone more. “That Barton didn’t even go to a proper school? He got some schooling at the orphanage - tragic story, don’t you think? - and later at that zoo of a circus, but that can’t have turned out too well, I fear.”

“What are you talking about?” the question slipped out before Phil could reign it in, but it was nothing new that his judgement was seriously impaired when it came to Clint.

“Oh,” Lichtenthal feigned surprise, but the light in his eyes was pure triumph. “Didn’t Barton tell you? He was raised in an orphanage with his brother, Barney. But his brother got bored with it and dragged him away into the big, bad world where they then joined the circus. There, at the tender age of seven, Barton learned to shoot and proceeded to perform like a trained monkey for years on end. But Barney did not like that his little brother got more attention than him, and so, one day ‘poof’ - he disappeared, leaving poor little Clint all alone in the world.”

Phil’s heart clenched painfully, every word feeling like a punch to the gut. He wanted to scream at Lichtenthal, to shut him up by wrapping his hands around his long, scrawny neck. These things were private, things that should be told by no-one but Clint himself, and only to people who Clint wanted to tell them to. To use Clint’s past pains like this, simply to get a rise out of Phil, made him feel sick and cheated out of something important.

“What do you want?” Phil gritted out, fighting every muscle in his face to keep from showing how much Lichtenthal had managed to rattle him.

“Ah, finally, we’re getting somewhere.” Lichtenthal steepled spindly fingers in front of his chest. “What has Barton told you about SHIELD?”

Phil blinked at him. “What’s SHIELD?”

Lichtenthal sighed and even the fake-regretful expression looked cruel on him. “And I’d hoped to be able to do this the easy way.”

Before Phil could steel himself, the two goons that had entered with Lichtenthal had grabbed his arms from both sides and a sudden, sharp pain to the back of his knee would have thrown him to the ground if Lichtenthal’s lackey’s weren’t holding on to him.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Lichtenthal made a show of studying his nails. “Who’s in possession of the other part of the plans?”

Phil swallowed and this time braced himself in advance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The next blow landed in one of his kidneys and Phil couldn’t suppress a pained sound, his raw throat protesting and making him cough.

“I might have to revise my previous assessment of Barton’s choice in a partner.” Lichtenthal’s eyes were alight with malice, his lips thin and tight with the beginning of annoyance. “But I have time, Mr Coulson and you may be determined, but you’re no agent. You’ll break soon enough, I assure you, and then your boy-toy can pick up what’s left of you. Will you tell me about the plans now?”

Phil didn’t even dignify that with an answer and earned himself three more blows. One to his jaw, splitting his lip and filling his mouth with the metal taste of blood, one to his solar plexus and one to his other leg, this time succeeding in sending him to his knees right at Lichtenthal’s highly polished shoes.

“What do you know about SHIELD, Mr Coulson?” Lichtenthal repeated.

Phil spat out blood, right onto the shiny surface of the German’s shoes and looked up, right into the other man’s cold blue eyes. “Fuck you,” he answered calmly.

The goons dragged him roughly back to his feet and Phil tried his hardest to remove himself from the situation, just like he’d read one was supposed to in situations like these, but Lichtenthal was right. He wasn’t an agent, he had no training whatsoever. All his resistance stemmed merely from his own character and his fierce determination not to betray Clint, but at the end of the day, something had to give. He couldn’t hold this up for long - he just hoped it would be long enough.

*

Phil pressed his aching face to the cold stone-floor, feeling as though he’d never move again. Every inch of his skin - as well as everything underneath - felt raw and abused. The throbbing in his temples was even worse than before and there were still lingering traces of the hangover from the drug that had knocked him out in the first place.

Lichtenthal had eventually given up with a promise to return with more inventive methods and Phil hoped that something, anything, happened before then. He knew he wouldn’t make it through another round that, if Lichtenthal was to be believed, would be even worse than the last one. They had given him some water and Phil had forced it down his throat in the hope that it would hydrate his body after the drug had so successfully done the opposite, and also unsure whether he would be given more anytime soon.

Phil had no idea how much time had passed since then, but he could hardly tell whether he was actually dozing or awake. The pain was a constant companion, even when he nodded off it seemed, and made it impossible for him to distinguish minutes from hours. He carefully rotated his head in order to cool his other cheek, thankful that the goons at least hadn’t managed to knock any of his teeth loose, when suddenly there was a quiet sound at the door.

Involuntarily, Phil whimpered into the floor. It was too soon, they couldn’t be back already, he couldn’t stand any more of this.

The door opened, hinges surprisingly quiet and Phil reflexively curled into a ball, knowing that he was unable to stand unaided and attempting to protect his most vulnerable parts.

“Phil?” even with the frantic edge, Phil would have recognised the voice anywhere.

Relief crashed into him and he uncurled, trying to sit up and squinting into the sudden light. “Clint?” his voice was wrecked.

Gentle hands ran over his body, checking for injuries even as they helped him to sit. “Phil, hey,” Clint murmured, voice rushed and full of worry. “Are you alright?”

Phil reached for Clint without thinking, his hands running over the smooth surface of Clint’s field suit, before reaching warm skin, one of his hands curling around Clint’s arm and the other around the back of his neck. “I didn’t tell them anything,” Phil whispered hoarsely.

Clint let out a sound that almost sounded like a sob, his arms wrapping around Phil’s shoulders and his face pressing warm and close against Phil’s neck. Clint’s breath was hot and soothing, coming out in uneven bursts as he held tightly onto Phil. It made Phil’s various injuries protest, but Phil would gladly take the pain if he could just keep Clint in his arms like this forever.

“I know, I know you didn’t,” Clint said into his skin, lips brushing against his throat. “And I don’t care if you’d told them everything you know, god, I just want you to be okay. Tell me you’re okay.”

Phil slid one of his hands into Clint’s soft hair, curling his fingers into it and cupping his head gently, while his other arm slid around Clint’s waist, brushing the quiver strapped to Clint’s back. “I’m okay,” he whispered, and meant it.

They held each other like this for another moment, before Clint slowly drew back enough to look at him. One of his hands gently cupped Phil’s jaw, sharp eyes inspecting the damage. His thumb briefly brushed over Phil’s split lip, making him wince slightly. “Can you walk?”

Phil seriously considered the question for a second. “I think so.”

Clint took a deep breath, as if he needed it to pull himself together, before nodding sharply and rising, gently drawing Phil along with him. Phil’s body protested, but his knees stayed locked once he was on his feet. He could see the black fletching of Clint’s arrows peeking out behind his back along with the familiar curve of his bow slung over his shoulders and sticking out at the sides. He was indeed in his field suit, but was wearing the Converse they’d bought in Toronto, seeing as his boots had been ruined during the tracker incident. Phil would’ve found it funny if he wasn’t so miserable.

Unlike the only other time Phil had seen the outfit, this time Clint was also wearing a black brace on his left arm, that Phil supposed was a guard for the bow, and a shooting glove on his right. There was also a gun strapped to his left thigh.

“Here,” Clint said, drawing the gun in one, smooth move and handing it to Phil. “Do you know how to shoot?”

“We have a farm, so my dad taught me how to use a shotgun, but this looks a little different.” Phil doubtfully eyed the small handgun in his hands.

“Okay.” Clint moved until he was standing at his back, his left arm wrapping around his waist and his right helping Phil’s fingers to curl around the gun in the appropriate grip. “Principal’s the same with every gun. Here’s the safety,” the sound of the gun’s safety being released made the hair on the back of Phil’s neck stand on end. “Don’t worry too much about aiming right, just keep it away from your body and be prepared for a recoil, but if you’ve used a shotgun, then this’ll seem like a piece of cake in comparison.”

Clint’s hand fell away, but the one curled around Phil’s hip remained. “Try it.”

Tightening his grip on the handle and moving his left hand in under his right to steady it, Phil breathed deeply, aimed and shot. The sound was loud, but not as loud as his father’s gun, and the bullet hit the wall almost directly opposite him.

Clint squeezed his hip, the gesture brief, but full of affection. “Not bad,” he sounded amused. “But then again, I’ve gotten used to you having all kinds of freaky skills.”

Phil smiled weakly and clicked the safety back on. Clint handed him two more clips and Phil pocketed them, hoping he wouldn’t have to use them. Somewhere an alarm started blaring.

“We’re meeting Natasha by the labs. Clint retrieved his bow and nocked an arrow, holding both loosely in one hand, ready to take a shot if necessary. “Try and stay behind me as much as possible and if you see something move, shoot it.”

“Right,” Phil said wryly, moving with Clint towards the still open door.

But before they could step outside, Clint suddenly stopped and turned back to look at Phil, his face open and vulnerable.

“What?” Phil asked softly, stepping closer. Close enough to put a hand on the warm skin of Clint’s arm. “What is it?”

“Just,” Clint sucked in a breath. “Be careful, okay?”

Phil gently squeezed his arm. “You too.”

The guards Clint had taken down on his way in were still unconscious, sprawled out over the floor. Hundreds of footsteps could be heard over the still on-going alarm as the whole base sprang into action to catch the intruders.

They stepped over them, Phil moving both of his hands to his gun, his thumb releasing the safety. He didn’t want to take any chances. Turns out he was right, when upon rounding the next corner, the first shots rang out.

Clint cursed, pushing Phil back around the corner and flattening himself against the wall, before firing three arrows in quick succession. He ducked back behind the cover, drawing another one.

“When I say run, you run straight on and wait for me at the corner,” Clint ordered, already drawing back the string on his bow, red light flashing as he aimed. “Run!”

Phil took off, reflexively keeping his head down, but he needn’t have worried. Clint’s bow sang behind him and the gunfire was replaced by groans and thumps as the HYDRA goons were incapacitated. Clint joined him not a moment later. “Can you cover me for a second, I need those arrows. Don’t want to run out.”

Phil swallowed, but raised his gun. Clint flashed him a grin and took off, quickly collecting the arrows he had shot while Phil kept a careful eye on their surroundings, heart beating loudly in his chest as he tried to stay focused and keep his hands from shaking.

They continued down the hall and, after another two turns, Phil got to use his gun for the first time. There were more of them now, Clint shooting as many of them as he could from afar, but having to fight quite a few up close, using his bow like a staff and flooring HYDRA goons left and right. Phil tried to aim for areas of the body that wouldn’t kill, but often didn’t have time to consider his shot and simply returned fire in order to keep from being hit.

The constant noise of the alarm was grating on Phil’s nerves and he was still aching all over, the only thing keeping him going was adrenaline and the knowledge of getting out of this hellhole. Another corridor later, Phil inserted a new clip into his gun and shot a goon that had managed to twist Clint’s arm behind his back and then another one that had his rifle trained on them both.

They found Natasha standing in the midst of a heap of fallen HYDRA goons, a gun each strapped to her thighs, looking impatient. “Where have you been? We only have ten minutes before the place will blow.”

Phil tried to suppress his alarm at that, throwing a nervous glance around the fallen HYDRA guys and wondering how many more there were still making their way towards them.

“Fury will have my head for this,” Clint muttered next to him, quickly shooting a goon across the room. “We’ll destroy a ton of evidence with this stunt.”

“I put saving our hides before evidence,” Natasha said, drawing both her guns simultaneously and shooting something behind Phil’s back, making Phil whirl around and raise his own gun as he saw a new group of goons entering their line of sight. “We need to move.”

Soon, shooting alone didn’t do it anymore and Clint was back to wielding his bow like a curved staff, expertly aiming for the most vulnerable parts. Natasha was almost a blur of red in a sea of black HYDRA goons, ducking between bodies and jumping at them like a wildcat. Phil tucked his gun into his belt and avoided as many punches as he could, while more or less blindly kicking at their enemies. 

“Five minutes,” Natasha reminded them, standing back to back with Phil for a moment, before throwing herself at a large guy, twisting her legs around his neck and swiftly flooring him. She jumped lightly, taking out another goon that was trying to kick Clint from behind.

“Any sign of Lichtenthal?” Clint asked, whacking the guy next to him with his bow, before kicking him in the knee.

“He’s probably long gone, the bastard.” Natasha dragged Phil with her to the floor, before drawing her gun long enough to shoot two guys. “He seems the type to run when things get unpleasant.”

“He certainly lets other people do his dirty work for him.” Clint scowled, smoothly sweeping a thug’s legs out from under his body.

They took off at a dead run and managed to make it to the entrance hall, the open, wide room stretching before them in a way that made Phil think it impossible to cross without being shot. The door to the outside looked miles away.

HYDRA goons where streaming out of the corridors opposite them and Phil spotted a few snipers at the landing above. The few they had left behind were closing in, forcing them to turn around to defend their backs.

“Three minutes,” Natasha said, borrowing one of Clint’s arrows to stab one of them through the thigh, before handing it back to Clint so he could shoot it into another goon’s shoulder.

“The countdown’s not helping,” Clint informer her, grabbing Phil around the waist and dragging him against his chest in order to help him avoid a fist meant for his stomach.

“Oh, sorry,” Natasha huffed, her guns back in her hands. “Should I keep it to myself and let you be surprise-blown-up?”

“Children,” Phil said tightly, letting his empty clip drop to the floor and snapping in a new one. His nerves were already fraying at the edges without Clint and Natasha bickering like an old, married couple.

“Okay, here goes nothing.” Clint was down to two arrows and bent down to quickly extract a few more from the bodies around him. Phil had to look away, stomach churning unpleasantly. “We have to make a run for it, or we’re not gonna make it.”

“Go, I’ll cover you and then you can do the same so I can catch up,” Natasha ordered, shooting both guns simultaneously and effectively taking down two snipers from the landing.

Clint grabbed Phil’s unoccupied hand and tugged him into a sprint. Phil’s lungs were burning, bullets missing him by inches left and right and his heart hammering hard enough to make him fear it would leap out of his chest. He nearly slipped once, but Clint’s hold him him was strong and he steadied him quickly, before urging him on relentlessly. When they finally slid to a halt by the exit, Phil felt as though he had run for hours and his feet almost didn’t stop in time, making him crash against Clint’s side, his abused muscles screaming in protest.

Clint was already shooting again, his body placed protectively in front of Phil as he covered Natasha, who was coming at them at a dead-run. Phil quickly raised his gun to help and managed to empty his last clip just a moment before she reached them. The HYDRA goons were close on her heels, barking at each other in German and looking collectively frustrated.

“Go, go, go!” she shouted, pushing Phil and Clint out the door and making them all stumble.

Gunshots followed them, and Phil felt something slicing into his arm, but Natasha kept pushing Phil, forcing him to keep running. He could feel Clint behind him, distantly realising that he must _still_ be shielding him, before the explosion rocked the ground beneath them. A force unlike anything he’d ever felt before sent Clint crashing into his back and they both went down, hard. 

When Phil could think again, he wasn’t sure whether he’d passed out for a moment, or if it merely felt like it because he was unable to hear anything beyond an insistent ringing in his ears. The air was heavy with smoke and ash and Phil coughed without hearing it, his throat screaming in protest. Something was pressing him flat into the ground and Phil shifted slightly, only to have the weight shift with him before suddenly rolling off.

Clint’s faint, far-away groan was the first thing Phil heard as his ears slowly started functioning again.

“Clint?” His voice was no more than a croak and he coughed again, before pushing blood-knuckled hands against the ground and forcing himself onto all fours. Concrete digging into his knees, Phil crawled the short distance to Clint’s side and felt slightly panicked as he touched his dirtied face.

Natasha appeared next to him, staggering slightly as she took another step before kneeling at Clint’s other side. Her leather jacket was torn along her right sleeve and she had a long scratch across her cheek, red curls all over the place from where her pony-tail had come loose.

“Shit,” she said, reaching out to gently probe at Clint’s side, making him moan and weakly roll his head from one side to the other. Her hand came away red. “He’s hit.”

Phil went cold all over, feeling the blood drain from his face. His hands brushed over Clint’s chest, needing the reassurance of his beating heart beneath his palms.

“Give me your jacket,” Natasha ordered and Phil snatched his hands back, scrambling to comply.

Natasha ripped it from his fingers and bundled it up, pressing it firmly to Clint’s side and making him groan in pain. His eyes scrunched, face contorting for a moment, before he blinked. For the first time the sharpness in his gaze was absent, a haze of agony clouding his vision. He weakly raised an arm and Phil grasped his hand, pressing their palms together.

“I’m going to call for back-up,” Natasha said, a small line of worry between her eyes as she looked up at Phil. “Put as much pressure on the wound as you can. We need to slow the bleeding, or he’ll lose too much blood.”

Phil’s heart felt as though someone was crushing it in an iron fist, but he did his best to stay focused, obediently placing one of his hands over Natasha’s so she could withdraw, before gently wrapping an arm beneath Clint’s back to lift him partway into his lap and cradle him against his chest.

Hands coated red, Natasha put some distance between them, extracting Phil’s phone from the back-pocket of her jeans as she went.

“Phil,” Clint said, voice strained and Phil’s blood-stained fingers curled around Clint’s when his hand found its way to Phil’s own where it was straining to keep up the pressure. “It’s going to be okay.”

Phil laughed, but it sounded broken and more like a sob than anything else. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to you?”

Clint grinned, even though his face was tight with pain, his head lolling against Phil’s arm as he looked up at him. “We haven’t done anything the way normal people are supposed to, so I think we’re good.”

Phil’s smile felt frayed and he knew that Clint could feel him trembling. “So that’s your way of trying to date someone, is it?”

“What, you didn’t catch that?” Clint turned his head further into Phil’s chest. “Must be losing my touch.”

Phil cradled him close, even as he pushed down harder, blood seeping out beneath the edges of the fabric. Far too much blood. It was everywhere, soaking through Phil’s shirt and drenching his sleeves.

“Just stay with me,” Phil whispered into Clint’s hair, desperation finally surfacing and making his voice shake. “And I promise we can do whatever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Clint rasped. “Just…” His free hand weakly found its way to the front of Phil’s bloodied shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric and his hazy eyes sought Phil’s once more.

“What?” Phil’s hand was shaking as it gently brushed against Clint’s cheek, tracing his jaw before cradling it in his palm. “Clint, what?”

Clint turned into the touch. “Can you do one thing for me?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me.” Clint’s grip on his shirt tightened for a moment. “I just, I want to know what it feels like. Just once.”

“Shhh,” Phil shushed him softly and silenced him by brushing a gentle kiss to Clint’s lips. “Once this is all over, you can kiss me all you like.”

Clint smiled against his mouth. “I’ll hold you to that, too.”

This time, Phil pressed their lips together more firmly, sinking into the silky softness of Clint’s mouth, but it tasted like blood and tears and too much like goodbye and Phil couldn’t stand it, even though breaking the connection hurt more than holding onto it. He brushed shaky caresses into Clint’s skin, following the line of his thumb with his lips and pressing soft kisses against Clint’s brow, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Clint nuzzled against him weakly, his lips brushing against his jaw, before the sound of Natasha approaching made them part reluctantly. 

She sank down on Clint’s other side, her face tight with worry. “Backup’s on the way.”

Clint turned heavy-lidded eyes to her. “Sitwell?”

“Yeah,” Natasha smiled, but it looked strained. “Told me to tell you that you’re an idiot and that if you pull a stunt like this again, he’ll revert you back to rookie status and lock you up at base.”

Clint grinned, but it was even weaker than before and his eyes kept closing, taking longer and longer until they opened again. His grip on Phil weakened and Phil pressed down sharply on the wound, desperate to do something, anything to stop Clint from slipping away. He groaned faintly, but his lids remained shut.

“Barton. Barton- hey, Clint,” Natasha insisted, using one of her blood-coated hands to gently pat Clint’s cheek and succeeded in him opening his eyes again, if only for a fraction. “You don’t get to die on me, you hear. I still owe you a debt.”

“It’s okay, Nat,” he mumbled, his eyes already closing once more. “I know you love me, really.”

“Clint,” Phil said intently. “Clint, talk to me. Don’t fall asleep.”

“‘M so tired,” Clint’s voice was faint and he sounded almost incoherent. “Don’t leave me.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Phil reassured him, fighting the burning in his eyes. “We’ll stay right here with you.”

“Want to keep you, Phil,” Clint mumbled, fingers twitching weakly against Phil’s chest. “Everyone always goes away, but I want…not you…want to keep…”

Phil hid his face against Clint’s neck as his eyes finally spilled over. “You can keep me, I promise,” he whispered brokenly. “You can keep me however long you want me.”

*

Up close, Sitwell looked a little less like just another agent, and more like a concerned parent. He snapped at the medical personnel and personally oversaw them putting Clint on a stretcher and wheeling him off in the direction of the helicopter, several people already trying to stabilise him. It was also Sitwell who put his hand on Phil’s shoulder to keep him stumbling after Clint, but his touch was comforting as well as restraining.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go with him,” Sitwell sounded truly regretful. “But I promise you’ll be informed about Agent Barton’s status as soon as we know how he is.”

Phil could only nod numbly, his shirt still sticking to his skin with Clint’s blood and everything seeming somehow not real. A blanket appeared on his shoulders and he distantly heard a medic say “He’s in shock.” At that moment, Phil had no idea what that meant.

He sought the only other familiar face and found Natasha still standing opposite him, but this time flanked by two burly SHIELD agents. They weren’t actively restraining her, but they looked ready to at the smallest indication of a threat.

“Miss Romanoff, I was left under the impression that you’d like to join us, is that correct?” Sitwell looked at Natasha through his glasses.

“Yes.” Natasha was back to being stone-faced and closed off. “I believe SHIELD could benefit from my skill-set.”

“You’ll understand, Miss Romanoff, that I can’t simply take your word for it just yet.”

Natasha gave a sharp nod and didn’t protest when the two agents at her side started to lead her away. When she passed Phil, however, she curled one of her delicate hands around his arm and gave it a squeeze. “Take care, Phil.”

Phil briefly patted her hand, before she withdrew once more. “You too, Natasha.”

He watched her retreating back, feeling even more lost now than a minute ago.

“Mr Coulson,” Sitwell said, not unkindly. “We have arranged for transportation and for you to be picked up by your emergency contact. SHIELD will cover your medical treatment before your journey home and will be in touch about your reimbursement.”

The words washed over Phil without him really registering any of it. He didn’t care about money, or his blown up apartment, or anything other than Clint.

“You’ll let me know how he is.” It was more a demand than a question, his hands clutching the blanket around his shoulders to hide how much they were shaking. “You’ll contact me as soon as you know.”

Sitwell gave him a nod. “You have my word.”

“Phil!”

Phil instinctively turned at the familiar voice and not a moment later, had an arm full of Pepper. For once, she wasn’t dressed in her pristine outfit, but a pair of old jeans and a sweater that Phil hadn’t seen since university. With her usual heels absent, she’d shrunk down to Phil’s height and her hair was as messy as he’d ever seen it. She squeezed him hard, but Phil didn’t care, hugging her back just as tight and simply falling into her familiar form and letting himself be comforted.

“Are you alright?” she asked, finally drawing back slightly. “Oh my god, is that blood on your shirt?”

Phil shook his head and then thought of how ridiculous that must seem. “Not mine,” he added.

Pepper opened her mouth, but then seemed to catch herself. Even if the rest of her was out of her usual attire, her stance was suddenly all business. Phil breathed a sigh of relief a the familiarity of it. He needed someone to be in control right now, needed to have everything broken down in simple steps or he would simply fall apart right there and then.

“Okay, hospital first,” she said, already wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him towards the remaining paramedics and the ambulance that had just arrived. “Tony let me borrow his jet, so after you’re all fixed up we’ll get you on there and you’ll rest, alright?”

Phil nodded without actually listening to what she was saying, simply soothed by her voice. He was grateful that his brain had simply decided to go offline for now.

*

Lungs screaming in protest, Phil shot up from the bed, panting hard enough for his throat to ache. Gunfire was still resounding in his ears, the sound of bullets hitting the walls and floor next to him, missing him by mere inches. His ears were ringing in the silence and when Phil reached up to run a hand over his face, it came away slick with sweat.

Looking down, he found his sleep-shirt clinging to his skin, the Captain America shield on its front sticking to his chest at a strange angle. Shivering, Phil stumbled from the bed, sheets tangling around his thighs and making him feel even more unsteady as he rose on shaking legs. Knees weak, Phil felt goosebumps raise the hairs on his arms, the cold late January night-air harsh against his sleep-warm skin, even thought he knew Pepper was careful in keeping the flat at a comfortable temperature even at night.

Tearing the wet shirt from his skin, Phil tossed it aside in a show of uncharacteristic untidiness, before briefly rifling through one of the drawers of his dresser and retrieving a new one and pulling it over his head. Before he could even think about it, his hands had reached out and closed around the familiar softness of the hoodie he had discarded before going to bed the night before.

The cracked bull’s head was staring back at him and Phil couldn’t help the urge of pressing his nose into the soft grey fabric for a moment, even though Clint’s scent was long gone. Phil had put off washing it as long as he could, but now it smelled of Pepper’s detergent and Phil himself. Even so, putting it on still brought comfort, wrapping around him like an embrace. Phil knew it was terribly sentimental, but after all that had happened, he thought he deserved a little sentimentality.

Giving his bed a look, Phil decided that there was no point in returning to it just yet. He didn’t want to hear anymore bullets and explosions and he could feel himself still trembling slightly at the memory of it.

Pepper had three guest rooms, one of which was now Phil’s, and his was closest to the kitchen, the way by now familiar enough that Phil could walk it without turning on a light. The tiles were cold beneath his feet, the underfloor heating having long switched off for the night, and Phil cursed quietly, regretting having forgone socks.

He put on some water, knowing that a cup of that strange green tea Pepper favoured would help calm his frazzled nerves.

“Nightmare?”

Phil jumped, the teabag slipping from his fingers. He turned sharply, but even in the dark he recognised the familiar form of his sister outlined by the street-light streaming in from the huge living-room windows. Letting out the breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, Phil relaxed against the counter and nodded. 

The days spent running with Clint had made him jumpier, more suspicious. Now, when he walked down the street, his eyes were constantly scanning his surroundings, trying to take note of everything and everyone around him. He didn’t trust people the way he had before and did not feel safe if he wasn’t moving within large crowds where it was easy to blend in. The first time Pepper and his sister had dragged him out to Starbucks after he had recovered enough to leave the flat, Phil had spent the entire time there startling at every loud noise and uncomfortably shifting in his seat, unable to listen to a word from either of them.

“Let me,” Abbey said in that tone that sounded more like an order than anything else and that both her and Phil had inherited from their mother.

Phil didn’t protest and moved aside, sliding onto one of the stools by the breakfast bar and watching his sister deftly finishing what Phil had started, pouring tea for them both. She didn’t say anything else while she worked, nor when she placed two steaming mugs in front of Phil and slid into a seat next to him. There was nothing more to say, really, that she hadn’t already let loose.

When Pepper had informed his sister about what had happened, Abbey had taken the first plane out of the States and met them in Budapest. Phil didn’t remember much about any of it, only vaguely recalled the hospital where he’d gotten treatment and Abbey’s pale face as she had finally appeared at his side, her complexion almost rivalling the whiteness of the hospital-walls.

There had been a lot of frantic talking in low voices and, later on their flight back in Tony Stark’s privet jet, not so quiet voices. Phil had watched his sister losing her cool, her calm not as deep-seated as Phil’s - it never had been - and had simply let her words wash over him.

By the time they had reached Pepper’s apartment, Abbey had fallen silent. Quieter than Phil ever remembered - normally that had always been Phil’s forté while she happily babbled along next to him. She and Pepper had fallen into a well-co-ordinated routine, bringing Phil tea and helping him change the bandage around his cracked ribs, before curling up on either side of him in front of the TV.

Phil hadn’t asked about Pepper’s absence from work or Abbey’s extended stay, had not talked at all, really. It was as if his mind had simply shut down, his thoughts fixed on Clint and whether he was alright. He had checked his phone obsessively, his insides twisting into knots and his chest permanently aching with the weight of worry pressing so heavily on him that sometimes it felt as though he couldn’t breathe at all.

When the e-mail had finally come, four days after they had returned to New York, Phil’s legs had given beneath him and he had been unable to do anything but sit on the floor in his room, pressing his phone to his chest and feeling his eyes spilling over.

“Have you thought about it?” Abbey said then into the silence, cutting through it even though her voice was low and measured.

Phil sighed. “I told you, I don’t need a therapist.”

Abbey pushed her mug a little further across the bar, putting an arm on the polished top and turning in her seat to face him. “I know what you told me, I just don’t believe it,” she said, her feet finding their way onto the foot-rest of Phil’s own as she leaned closer and wrapped her fingers gently around his wrist. “Phil, it’s been almost four months. You can’t go on like this, it isn’t healthy.”

Phil resolutely stared at the dark content of his mug, the smell of the tea slightly nauseating while at the same time soothing in it’s familiarity. “I’m perfectly healthy,” he said, voice slightly sharper than he’d intended. “I go to work, I eat regular meals and I try to sleep as best as I can. What else would you have me do? I told you last time that you didn’t have to come back. I’m fine, Pepper’s here and your family needs you more than me.”

Abbey sighed, her hand sliding away, as she rubbed her tired eyes. “You’re my family too, Phil and even though you’re doing a hell of a job of faking it, I know you’re not fine,” she said softly, her eyes glittering in the faint light. “Come back with me. Please. A change of scenery will help, I promise. Mum’s going out of her head with worry, she’s planning on flying upstate again and you know how fussy she was last time she visited here. You don’t even have to stay at our parents’ if you don’t want her hovering, you can stay with us. You know Gus doesn’t mind, and Anna and Lisa have been asking about you constantly.” 

Phil wished he could ease her mind a little, but he knew it was almost impossible. He’d never been able to lie to her, not even when he’d wanted to.

Reaching out, he grasped her slender hand, cradling it in his palm. “Abbey,” he said gently, looking at her through the darkness. “I like New York, you know I do. The idea of being stuck in Oak Hill without anything to do…trust me, I’d go crazy there. I need to work, it helps. Go home, everyone needs you. I’m as well as I can be and I promise I’ll come for a visit in February, okay?”

Abbey sighed, sounding defeated and Phil’s heart clenched painfully, not wanting to cause her pain but not knowing how not to.

“Alright,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “But you’ll tell me if you need me, okay?”

“Promise.”

*

  
*

Phil looked at the all-too familiar message, the words long since burned into his brain. There was no reason to keep coming back to it, but nevertheless Phil hadn’t managed to delete it and kept opening it again and again, as if some additional text would suddenly appear, but the words forever stayed the same.

Almost four months. Four months of silence and waiting. Four months of Phil’s hope dwindling that he would ever hear from Clint again. Phil wasn’t sure what he’d expected, didn’t even know if Clint remembered all the things they’d said to each other before he’d passed out, but he’d at least expected something. Anything.

Anything other than being completely ignored and having to go back to his life as though nothing had happened.

“Mr Coulson?”

Phil looked up, only to find Lucy standing awkwardly in the door of his office. She was holding a steaming cup of coffee in her small hands, a look of concern on her face. No one knew what had happened, SHIELD had made sure of that, so officially Phil had simply been in a car accident, but Phil knew that Lucy wasn’t buying it. She was too smart for that and though Phil had never made a habit of underestimating her, even he’d had no idea how much Lucy actually cared for him.

When Phil had still been at home, every move sending jolts of pain through his body, Lucy’d turned up on Pepper’s doorstep with a bag of Phil’s favourite brand of doughnuts clutched in her hands and a look of relief on her face when she’d seen him whole and mostly intact. At that moment, it was as though Phil had seen her for the first time.

“Are you alright, sir?” Lucy asked hesitantly, taking another slow step into his office.

Phil let his phone slide back into the pocket of his suit jacket and rose to relieve Lucy of the coffee. “Yes, thank you, Lucy.”

She nodded and turned to leave, but then hesitated before turning back to face him once more, her hands nervously kneading each other. Setting the coffee aside, Phil leaned against his desk, giving Lucy time to arrange her thoughts.

“I just-” she broke off, taking another breath, before meeting Phil’s eyes and looking as unsure as Phil had ever seen her. “There’s this look on your face lately and- and I know that there’re people you can talk to, who care about you, but…sometimes it’s hard to talk to someone that knows you so well and I just- I wanted to let you know that I’m here, if you need me.”

Phil’s expression softened and he reached out to gently place one of his hands over Lucy’s still wrangling ones, her skin slightly reddened from the abuse. She instantly grabbed onto it, holding Phil’s hand tightly between chilled fingers.

“Lucy,” he started, but didn’t know what to say, too touched at her honest concern.

Lucy shook her head, her grip tightening slightly. “No, no, don’t thank me,” she said. “You’ve done so much for me since I came to the office and I don’t think you even know. You’ve always treated me like a person, everyone else…they think I’m just some young thing that’s trying to find a way to sleep my way to the top. They talk to me as if I’m stupid, as if I’d be ready to take any offer they give me.”

Phil’s jaw clenched in anger and he felt ashamed of himself. Of course he had known that people would be jealous of Lucy. She was the youngest on their floor, but Phil had chosen her anyway and although he’d expected some gossip, maybe some insults traded behind their backs, he hadn’t thought it would be quite this bad. Phil had never made a point of spending time with his staff and he was aware of what the others called him, how they thought they were entitled to discuss and criticise everything from his personal life over his appearance, but if things such as these bothered him, he’d never have made it through school. Even so, he’d at least thought they might show some decency in the face of a young girl who had left her family behind to move to America and offer her support instead of bringing her down in order to make their miserable selves feel better.

Lucy deserved better than that and Phil swore to himself that he would keep a very close eye on her from now on.

Straightening, Phil put his other hand onto her slender shoulder. “My door is always open to you and I wish for you to tell me if anyone’s bothering you. You are in a higher position than anyone but me on this floor and you have my full support to put some of these idiots in their place. I don’t want you taking any abuse.”

Lucy’s eyes looked suspiciously bright and she visibly suppressed a sniffle. “Thank you, Mr Coulson.”

Phil smiled at her. “Nothing to thank me for.” Giving her one last gentle squeeze, he let go of her and slowly returned to his chair, giving her time to collect herself. “Now, I thought you said there was a problem with the invoice from this morning?”

Lucy nodded, smiling. “Yes, it’s Smith again. I’ll go and get the print-out.”

“Good,” Phil said as she watched her walking to the door. “And Lucy?”

She turned slightly, looking back at him. “Yes, sir?”

“Call me Phil.”

She beamed.

*

Phil stared at the timer on Pepper’s DVD-player, glaring at the green digits. On the TV screen, some blond Barbie-like woman was slapping a dark-haired man, screaming at him about cheating on her with his sister. At least, that’s what Phil thought the slapping was about, anyway. He’d stopped paying attention to the program almost as soon as it had started.

His eyes flickered back to the timer. The numbers hadn’t changed.

It was Saturday afternoon and Phil was ready to climb out of his skin. If he wasn’t sure that Pepper would personally rip his head off if she found out that he had gone into the office at the weekend _again_ , then Phil would’ve been out the door long ago.

But all of the spreadsheets on his computer had been checked, and checked again, and he hadn’t bothered with any of his computer-blogs in so long that the number of unread articles was intimidating enough to have him click his RSS reader away every time he looked at it.

Pepper had given him the prototype of the latest starkPhone last month, saying that it was a gift from Tony for his help, but Phil hadn’t even switched it on yet. His old phone was lying next to him on the couch, Sitwell’s email staring at him accusingly from the screen.

Phil all but punched the home-button in frustration, only to be greeted with the by now familiar sight of Doodle Jump’s little green alien. The phone hardly made a sound as it hit the rug beneath the couch-table.

Closing his tired eyes, Phil took a deep breath. He wondered if he should attempt to catch up on some sleep. Pepper was out on a date and Phil felt exhausted enough that he might manage to lie down without wanting to jump back up straight away in frustration.

Flicking off the TV, Phil glanced at his phone, but then simply walked past it without picking it up. No one would call, so he might as well leave it there. He’d already been through his mandatory check-up from Abbey and his parents and Pepper wouldn’t call him when she was busy flirting. Phil was glad she’d gone out, she deserved a break.

Just as he was about to exit the living room altogether, there was a firm knock on the front door. Phil stopped, frowning. There was really no reason for anyone to knock, seeing as it was almost impossible to even enter the building without announcing oneself to the doorman downstairs. And there was another bell right next to the door.

The knock sounded again and Phil thought that it could only be Pepper. Maybe she’d forgotten her keys again, it wouldn’t be the first time. Despite her efficiency and the ability to remember a ridiculous amount of things, having to deal with Tony Stark on a daily basis sometimes got her stressed enough that she forgot all about herself.

Crossing the hall on socked feet, Phil opened the door, a greeting already on his lips, when he caught sight of the other person who wasn’t Pepper at all. 

He froze, feeling as though the world had stopped turning.

Clint shifted his weight, his bottom lip red from being bitten on so many times and he looked as nervous and unsure as Phil had ever seen him. His hair was darker, all traces from the bleach gone, and a bit shorter than Phil remembered. His eyes, however, were as sharp as ever.

His gaze briefly caught on Phil’s chest where Phil knew the Chicago Bull was clearly displayed despite the fraying print. Fighting the urge to cover it, Phil’s fingers curled around the edge of the door, hard enough to whiten his knuckles and make them ache. He’d never wished for one of his suits more.

“Uhm, hi,” Clint said haltingly, his hands twitching slightly with nerves and Phil thought they might be looking to curl around a bow. “Can I come in?”

Phil fought to keep his expression neutral and forcefully pried his fingers from the door. His chest felt tight enough to burst and the wild hammering of his heart wasn’t helping.

Stepping away from the door, Phil watched Clint shuffle inside. Despite the sub-zero temperatures outside, Clint’s jacket was sleeveless, the dark material stopping at his shoulders to reveal another grey hoodie, lighter than the Chicago Bulls one. A string from the hood had found its way outside, the end frayed as though Clint had repeatedly chewed on it.

The door fell shut behind them and Clint bit his abused lip once more, before reaching into his jacket pocket and tugging out a small package which he then unceremoniously thrust towards Phil’s chest. Phil took it on reflex, turning it in his hands. It was wrapped in partly sparkly Christmas paper that looked as though it’d been to war, the colour faded in some places because it was so badly wrinkled.

“It’s your Christmas present,” Clint informed him unnecessarily, the fingers of his left hand finding his hoodie’s string and fingering it nervously. “I know it’s a bit late. I wanted to send it, but then thought it’d be best to come deliver it myself.”

Phil did his best not to crush the small gift, whatever was inside felt soft and easily bent. “Thank you,” he said and even to his own ears it sounded stiff and dispassionate. “Come in, would you like something to drink?”

Not waiting for Clint’s answer, Phil turned and made his way to the kitchen. He could hear Clint following him, even his footsteps sounding hesitant. Forcing himself not to look over his shoulder, Phil moved as though on auto-pilot, retrieving a glass from the cupboard before opening the fridge.

“Water okay?” he asked, water bottle already in hand as he shouldered the fridge-door closed.

Clint sighed behind him, sounding closer than Phil had expected. "Phil, I'm sorry."

The sound of the empty glass hitting the countertop was almost like a whip, harsh and sharp, and Phil forced himself to take a deep breath before facing Clint once more. The edge of the counter dug into his back, the small pain welcome and grounding. 

"I know I fucked up," Clint went on when it was clear that Phil remained unforthcoming, not at all inclined to make this easy for him. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted to give you the chance of getting back to your life - back to normal."

Phil exhaled sharply. “And it didn't cross your mind to include me in that decision? To ask me what I want?" With every word, he felt his iron-control slipping, the slow boiling of his anger finally erupting after keeping it inside for so long. "I thought you were going to die! You were bleeding out and I just- I couldn't do anything! I was out of my mind until Sitwell told me you were going to be fine and then- I just- I was just waiting. I've been waiting for four months, Clint. But you just- I thought you didn't care!”

“Of course I care!” Clint’s voice was louder than Phil had ever heard it, uncontrolled and with a desperate edge. “You have no idea- when I woke up in medical I wanted to see you so bad, I wanted to call you- to hear your voice, but then I just thought how unfair that would be. I've already yanked you out of your life once, I didn't think I had the right to do it again and I just- I was scared, okay? I was fucking terrified."

They were both breathing hard now and Phil’s hands had found the counter behind him, holding on as though it was the last thing keeping him anchored from the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake him. "Of what?"

Clint sighed, his own hands clenched at his side. “Of normal being what you want. Of you wanting something where I could never fit in."

Phil could feel his eyes widen and his grip tighten, his knees suddenly feeling weak. “I don't want that. I never…” he trailed off, swallowing hard.

Slowly, hesitantly, Clint took a step towards him and, when Phil made no move to stop him, closed the remaining space between them. And just like that, Clint was suddenly right there, his arms sliding around Phil’s shoulders as he curled into Phil, warm and close, his breath and lips brushing Phil’s throat. Phil’s resolve shattered, his own arms moving around Clint and pressing their bodies together.

“I’m sorry,” Clint murmured against his skin and Phil held him even tighter, turning his head to press his own lips against Clint’s hair. “I’m so, so sorry. I missed you so much.”

Phil pressed his face into Clint’s shoulder. “I missed you too,” he whispered, words muffled, but he knew Clint must’ve heard them when his grip on Phil tightened. And finally, finally, Phil felt something inside him give, the crushing weight on his chest lifting at last.

Clint’s jacket was still slightly damp from the light snowfall outside, as was his hair as it brushed against Phil’s cheek when Clint tilted his head to nuzzle against his jaw with a small sigh.

He’d almost lost this. 

The realisation had never been quite this clear before. He hadn’t had any of this before, not like this. But now with Clint right here in his arms, the thought of having lost it all before it could’ve happened was sharp and painful. Not just because of Clint’s absence, but also because of the memory of Budapest, when Clint had been bleeding and bleeding, begging for Phil to kiss him just once as though he really believed it to be his last chance. The need to make sure that Clint was whole and safe was suddenly overwhelming, and Phil knew he was trembling just a little, his hands smoothing down along Clint’s spine, his sides, muscles shifting beneath his touch as Clint pressed closer against him.

It was easy, finding a way under Clint’s hoodie and t-shirt, drawing up the hem and sliding his hands upwards until they met smooth, warm skin, making Clint shiver, his lips hot and soft as they pressed against Phil’s throat. Phil’s right hand easily found the still raised skin where the bullet had sliced into Clint, his fingers gently tracing the scar and making Clint exhale sharply, a hot burst against Phil’s neck. Alarmed, Phil immediately wanted to draw back, but Clint’s hand shot out, trapping his own beneath the fabric and pushing it more firmly against his skin. 

“Don’t stop,” Clint whispered, close enough for his lips to brush against Phil’s skin with every word.

Phil’s fingers tentatively curled over Clint’s side, gently pressing his palm against the small mark. “Does it still hurt?”

Clint shifted, their cheeks brushing together as he drew back only far enough to meet Phil’s gaze, eyes dark and vulnerable. “Not anymore,” he said softly and Phil knew he wasn’t talking about the scar.

With a small, unidentifiable sound, Phil closed the last bit of distance between them, capturing Clint’s lips with his own, his left hand sliding into Clint’s damp hair and cradling his head. Clint’s lips parted against his own, a low moan lost between their mouths, and Phil pressed closer, deeper, his tongue greedily taking the invitation and sliding past Clint’s teeth, tasting nothing other than Clint. Not salt, not the metal taste of blood and not goodbye.

Phil felt gentle fingers against his jaw and tilted his head, letting Clint lick his way into his mouth, the edge of the counter hard against the small of his back. Phil’s hand in Clint’s hair tightened and when he pushed against him, Clint willingly went with the movement, letting Phil turn them and pin Clint against the fridge. It rattled under both their weights, something inside crashing as Clint’s back hit the closed door.

Clint gasped, the sound muffled between their mouths as Phil pressed him back further, his thigh slipping between Clint’s legs and feeling the hard length of his cock against it, hot even through two layers of clothing. Clint squirmed against him, pinned between the fridge and Phil’s body, rubbing against him in a way that made Phil’s breath catch and his thoughts scatter. One of Clint’s hands found its way from Phil’s shoulder to his ass, curling around it and drawing him closer, his thighs parting to make room for him. 

Phil’s hips gave an involuntary jerk, pressing their hard cocks together and making Phil’s spine tingle at the delicious friction. Phil pushed forward again and Clint’s jaw slackened on a moan, allowing Phil to lick deeper into his mouth even as Phil’s hands sought the top of the fridge, curling over the edge in order to get more leverage. Clint’s other hand joined his first, digging into the meat of Phil’s ass and tugging him closer, even as his own hips pushed forward to meet every thrust. Another crashing sound inside the fridge penetrated Phil’s hazy brain.

“Bed,” Phil gasped dragging his lips away from Clint’s mouth, only to be unable to resist the temptation of his bared throat and latching onto the smooth skin at the side of his neck. He felt as much as he heard Clint moan, one of his hands sliding into Phil’s hair and cradling him closer.

Prying his fingers away from the top of the fridge, Phil moved his hands to Clint’s broad shoulders, pushing gently to get some distance between them. Clint’s hand slid from his hair to the nape of his neck following Phil’s retreat by surging forward and kissing him again, deep and dirty, making Phil’s knees weaken and his fingers dig into the muscles under his hands.

Clint caught him before he could stumble, blindly following Phil’s unsteady lead to his room. They all but crashed into it, hands already tugging on each other’s clothes. Phil distantly heard some of the seams protesting at the rough treatment, but Phil didn’t care, too focused on finally having Clint’s naked skin under his hands.

“God, you’re amazing,” Phil gasped, words tumbling out between pants before he even knew they had formed on his tongue.

Clint whimpered. “Please, Phil, I need…” His soft words trailed off, lost between frantic kisses.

Phil’s hands gently curved around Clint’s face, cupping his jaw and running his thumbs over his cheekbones. “What?” he whispered, their breaths mingling. “What do you need?”

Leaning forward, Clint pressed their foreheads together, his fingers curling over Phil’s wrists as though wanting to keep them in place. “Anything,” he breathed, his body pressing in close and hot, their cocks rubbing together without the barrier of clothes for the first time, smearing pre-come over Phil’s overheated skin and making him lurch forward and gasp breathlessly into the space between their mouths. “Fuck, I don’t care just- I need you.”

Phil made a little, desperate sound in the back of his throat, before surging forward and licking his way back into Clint’s mouth, filthy and without fineness, wishing he could crawl under his skin. Clint’s muscles were firm beneath Phil’s hands, tight and trembling with tension, and Phil knew that he could have easily overwhelmed him, taken over control. But Clint was pliant, arching into Phil’s every touch and willingly following his lead, letting Phil manoeuvre him towards the bed. 

They tumbled onto it in a move that knocked the breath from both their lungs and Phil couldn’t help a small laugh, the sounds swallowed by Clint’s smiling mouth.

“For someone so graceful on the dance floor, you’re kind of a klutz in bed,” Clint teased gently, breathlessly, his warm hands palming along Phil’s spine, the slightly rougher skin of his calluses making Phil shiver.

Phil raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, really?” He rolled his hips, one smooth motion that aligned their erections, grinding Clint into the mattress in a way that had him arch and moan, his thighs parting with want, cradling Phil between them. Phil did it again.

“Oh god, oh fuck,” Clint’s voice was rough and strained, his head falling back to bare his neck even as his hips jerked upwards, trying to press closer, fingers digging hard enough into Phil’s flesh to leave bruises.

The thought of having Clint’s marks on his skin sent hot shivers of desire through his body, his hand shaking slightly as it stroked over one of Clint’s thighs, feeling muscles shift under his grip when Clint moved to curl his legs around Phil’s hips and dragging him closer, pushing them harder together.

Phil groaned, the sound muffled as he bent down to lick at Clint’s throat, teeth nipping at the spot where neck met shoulder. He wanted to make Clint fall apart, wanted him to come on his skin, claim him in every way possible and let Phil claim him in return, so he could be sure that he wouldn’t leave again.

“Clint,” he gasped, mindless and dizzy with desire, finding one of Clint’s hands and sliding their fingers together, desperate to ground himself, pinning Clint’s hand to the mattress.

Clint could have easily freed himself, but instead of fighting it, his head fell back against the bed. “Fuck,” Clint gasped, breathless and arching against him. Phil kissed him, kissed the curse from his lips and shifted, his free hand reaching between their bodies and finally, finally curling his fingers around Clint’s leaking cock, hot and heavy in his grip.

Clint moaned, breathy and wrecked, sounding as though he was dying. “Phil, I can’t- I’m gonna-,” he gasped into Phil’s mouth, hips pushing wildly to drive his hardness through the tight ring of Phil’s fingers, even as every muscle in his body tensed. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Phil groaned, wanting so badly he ached with it. He licked into Clint’s mouth, deep and dirty, mimicking the motions of their hips, and that was all it took. Hot wetness spilled between them, coating their stomachs and Phil’s cock, his own release so close he could taste it. Phil held on tightly as Clint shook apart beneath him, swallowing his moans and feeling a hot spark of want shooting through him whenever Clint’s tongue brushed his own.

Phil rutted against him, desperate and so very close, the mess between them hot and slick and easing the friction. His grip on Clint’s hand faltered, slipping to rest on the sheets instead, fingers clawing into the fabric. He felt Clint’s arms wrap around him, tight and secure, his hips pushing up to meet his thrusts. Phil fell into him, keening into his mouth and all but flying apart in his arms, his orgasm torn from him in almost painful jerks and so intense that his vision whited out, the brightness swallowing him whole.

*

When Phil’s melted brain slowly put itself back together, he had no idea how much time had passed, but he was still panting, his limbs weak and his nerve-endings tingling. Clint had rolled them to their sides, one of his legs over Phil’s hip and the fingers of his left hand stroking idle patterns into Phil’s skin. The sweat cooling on his naked skin made the room feel much colder than it actually was and Phil instinctively moved in closer against Clint’s warm body. Clint’s leg shifted higher, curling around Phil and drawing him in, before leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. Phil kissed back blindly, one of his hands gently stroking over the firm muscles of Clint’s thigh, before running up over his side and cupping Clint’s jaw to draw him closer into the kiss. The slow stroke of Clint’s tongue made Phil shiver, the lingering burn of his orgasm making him feel over-sensitised and weak.

When Phil’s eyes finally blinked open, the room darker than he remembered from before, he was met with Clint’s smile and felt the corners of his own mouth quirk almost immediately in response.

“We’re a mess,” Phil sighed, but made no move to get up, uncaring despite his words.

Clint grinned and ran one of his fingers over Phil’s still come-slick stomach. “Not nearly as messy as I want us to be.”

Phil’s spent cock gave a half-hearted twitch that was almost painful. “Jesus, Clint, I think you forget that I’m ten years older than you.”

Clint nuzzled his cheek, huffing quietly into the skin of his neck. “You’re making yourself sound like a cradle-robber.”

Phil sighed, his hand cupping the back of Clint’s head, cradling it gently in his palm and feeling spiky hair bend beneath his touch. “I feel like one.”

With his hair mussed and his expression smiling and open, Clint looked terribly young, the usual hard edge that always made him seem years older than he actually was completely absent. But Clint only laughed at him and leaned in to kiss him again, Phil’s lips parting easily to let him in.

They kissed until the mess on their thighs and stomachs had dried into something sticky and uncomfortable, before reluctantly leaving the rumpled bed, pushing each other against walls every other step to make out like teenagers and making Phil forget everything about their age-difference as they stumbled into the shower together. 

By the time they made it back out and to Phil’s room, the sky outside had completely darkened and the snowfall had become strong enough to blur the city-lights. Phil rummaged through a drawer to find a spare pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

“Natasha says hi, by the way,” Clint said, accepting the clothes Phil handed him. “She’s been reaming my ass for the past four months, telling me what an idiot I am.”

Phil had to smile at that. “How is she?”

“She’s good.” Clint’s words were briefly muffled as he dragged the t-shirt over his head. It was a little tight across his shoulders, Captain America’s shield stretched slightly out of proportion across his chest. “She’s got two more months of probation left, after that she’s free to go where she wants again. It’s been driving her nuts having to check in and out every time she wants to leave HQ. I’m just glad that she hasn’t chucked the tracker they put on her. They’re all playing it tough, but really, everyone’s terrified of her.”

Phil stepped closer, reaching out to absently trace the red and white rings of the shield, touching just because he could. “She’s really joining SHIELD?”

Clint looped his arms around Phil’s neck, his fingers softly carding through Phil’s short hair. “Aced all her field exams as soon as they let her take them.” Phil tilted his head into the caress, his arms sliding around Clint’s waist and tugging him closer. “She’s been assigned to Sitwell. No one else would have her and SHIELD already knows that we work well together.”

Phil thought about the HYDRA base being blown to pieces, the explosion shaking the ground beneath his feet. “Yes,” he said drily. “I think they’re all aware of how well.”

Clint laughed and leaned in to place a smacking kiss on his lips, before sobering slightly. “Actually, there’s something Fury wanted me to talk to you about.”

Phil frowned. “Fury as in the director of SHIELD?”

“Yeah.” Clint smiled slightly, but it looked nervous. “He was pretty impressed with you and let’s just say that doesn’t happen very often. He said he could use your skills.”

Phil’s brain ground to a halt, only to go into over-drive a moment later, his grip on Clint’s waist tightening slightly in alarm. “My skills?” Phil said incredulously. “I assume we’re not talking about my mathematical genius here, or my ability to handle spreadsheets?”

Clint frowned at him. “We both know that’s not the only things you can do.”

“What did you tell him about me?” Phil asked and it came out slightly sharper than he’d intended.

Clint sighed. “Just that I couldn’t have made it without you - which is totally true by the way,” he added quickly when he saw the look on Phil’s face. “The offering-you-a-job thing had nothing to do with me.”

“Clint…” 

Phil drew back slightly, one of his hands coming up to rub the bridge of his nose, but Clint didn’t let go, keeping him close. “Look, you don’t have to decide anything yet,” he said, his fingers drawing soothing circles into Phil’s shoulder-blades. “He said he’d email you the official forms in a few days so you can look it all over.”

Phil remained silent, his eyes fixed unseeingly at Captain America’s shield on Clint’s chest, his thoughts a mess. He thought about changing his job, about leaving the office and all those vicious idiots behind. Of a job that was more than just exasperation and spreadsheets, more than acting as though he didn’t know what people were saying behind his back, while having to chase each and every person to get them to do their work.

And he thought about not going. About things staying the same. Him a boring accountant and Clint a government agent, travelling all over the world and shooting people with his bow.

“Phil, hey,” Clint murmured, ducking slightly in order to catch Phil’s downcast gaze with his own. “You know I’ll still be here, right? I don’t want you to change your life for me, I just want to be part of it. Sure it’d be cool to have you in SHIELD, but if it’s not your thing, then whatever. I’m not making the same mistake twice. I have you now, I’m not letting you go again.” He ducked his head shyly. “If you’ll still have me, that is.”

Phil swallowed, chest tight with emotion, and shook his head. “You’re an idiot,” he said, voice rough, using his hold on Clint’s waist to draw him completely into his arms and feeling him melt into the embrace. Phil sighed, brushing his lips over Clint’s cheek and then his ear. “I’ve already told you you could keep me.”

Clint made a small sound in the back of his throat and curled into him, his face burying into Phil’s neck “I was so scared I’d lost you,”, he mumbled, breath hot and uneven against Phil’s skin.

Phil thought of how scared he’d been of losing Clint in Budapest, of how scared he’d been when he’d thought he’d already lost him these past four months, and only held on tighter. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

*

Phil gave the insides of the fridge a critical look, but besides having knocked over a bottle of wine and two or three tupperware container, everything still looked intact. Clint was sitting on the counter next to him, watching as Phil gathered the ingredients for a sandwich, before quickly cutting it all up and neatly layering it between two pre-cut pieces of bread.

“You still haven’t opened this, you know,” Clint said, holding up his scrunched up present.

Phil handed Clint his sandwich and plucked the small gift from his fingers. “You really bought me a present,” Phil said quizzically, eyeing the package with interest. It was light and not very thick, the tape that held the flimsy paper together reflecting the bright lights of Pepper’s designer kitchen.

“Yeah, well,” Clint said through a mouthful of sandwich, sounding casual even as his eyes flittered around the room, anywhere but on Phil. “As I said, I wanted to give it to you at Christmas, but I was too chickenshit. Natasha nearly speared me with an arrow when she found out after all the trouble I’d put her through getting it.”

Phil felt his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. “You asked Natasha for help?”

Clint shrugged. “I didn’t really know where to look.”

Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Phil carefully pried the tape from the wrapper, tearing it in the process. Whatever was inside was protected by another layer of plastic, the reflection so strong for a moment that Phil couldn’t see what was beyond it. Peeling the rest of the paper away, Phil tilted his hand and felt his breath catch in his throat.

Captain America looked back at him, fingers raised in a salute and shield strapped to his right arm, standing proud and every inch the hero Phil had always admired. It was trading card number 10 of the set he was so desperately trying to complete and right behind it was number 7, depicting Captain America with his foot perched on the back of a Nazi that looked like Hitler.

“That’s- they’re-” Phil’s voice gave out and he had to swallow. Phil’s hands were shaking slightly when he turned them over, studying them closely through the protective card-sleeves.

Clint rubbed his hands along his thighs, looking slightly awkward. “I hope they’re alright. The guy that sold them to me assured me they’re near mint or some shit. I had to take his word for it.” He gave a sheepish smile that made Phil’s heart lurch in his chest.

Carefully, almost afraid they would vanish if he put them aside, Phil placed the cards on the breakfast bar, before stepping closer to Clint, whose legs parted easily for Phil and cradled him between them as Phil’s arms slid around his waist to hug him tightly. The counter placed Clint just at the right position for Phil to tuck his head under Clint’s chin, hiding his overly bright eyes and pressing his face into his chest, breathing him in. Phil could smell his own shower-gel, but underneath it was Clint’s own scent and Phil buried his nose deeper into the fabric of the hoodie.

“They’re perfect,” Phil whispered hoarsely, his throat feeling thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

Clint’s arms closed more tightly around him, warm and strong, making Phil feel safe and wanted in a way that he’d never felt before. His lips pressed a kiss to the top of Phil’s head, hot breath stirring his hair in a content sigh.

*

Later, when Clint was asleep next to him and the snow outside had almost turned into a full-blown storm, looking like a thick, white blanket, Phil silently slid from between the sleep-warm sheets. He shivered against the cool night-air, his bare chest breaking out in goosebumps and he hastily grabbed the Chicago hoodie from where he had discarded it earlier, pulling it on as he made his way from the room.

He found his phone right where he’d left it, looking lost on Pepper’s crème carpet. Sinking down on one knee, Phil fished it from beneath the couch table, his fingers fitting around the familiar width of it and unlocking it with a few, practiced moves.

Sitwell’s email flashed into view, the white background of his inbox bright enough to make Phil blink before he could properly look at it. The familiar words stared right back. Phil felt stupid, childish, but knew that he needed to do this, needed to free himself of these suffocating emotions that welled up every time he looked at this damned email. It didn’t matter, not anymore. Clint was here now, would still be here if the message was gone and Phil was sick of the sight of it, sick of holding on to it in silent desperation. With one determined touch to the screen, Phil hit ‘delete’ and watched it being sucked into the tiny trash icon at the bottom of the screen. 

It felt as though a physical weight had finally been lifted from his lungs and Phil breathed in deeply. Soft footsteps alerted him to another presence and he caught sight of Clint’s barely-lit form in the doorway.

“Phil?” His voice was soft, low and sleepy, but Phil could feel the sharpness of his gaze through the darkness, just as he had the very first time they had met. “You alright?”

Phil straightened himself. The phone’s screen turned off, plunging the room even further into darkness, but Phil hardly noticed as he watched Clint approach, slowly as though he was afraid Phil might vanish on the spot. Letting the phone slip from his fingers, the dull sound of it landing on the couch loud in the otherwise quiet room, Phil reached out to curl them around Clint’s instead. His hand was warm and strong, familiar calluses slightly rough against Phil’s skin, gripping him in a way that made Phil think he wouldn’t ever let go again. Phil squeezed right back, knowing that he would do anything to keep it that way. 

“Yes,” he said, feeling as though it had never been more true. “Yes, I’m alright.”

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I intended to add a Bonus Scene, but due to time and length reasons - and also because I didn’t feel it quite fitted with the ending - it was cut. I will post it as a sequel, though, as soon as it’s cleaned up and ready for the public ;). I have quite a few ideas for this ‘verse, but we’ll have to wait and see what my muse thinks about that, haha.
> 
>  **So, additional notes:**  
>  I used [this list](http://www.comicboards.com/marvelguide/companies.html) of the Marvel universe companies. I’m still quite unfamiliar with the comics, but I do as much research as I can and am constantly learning :). For those who are as clueless as me when it comes to the comicverse, [Roxxon](http://marvel.com/universe/Roxxon) is an oil company and I picked it because it’s big and also because of its connection to SHIELD. One of the other companies I mentioned, Carlton Co., was picked mostly at random and we all know Hammer.
> 
> As to Phil’s background: We all know how much fun it is to invent a history for him, so this was my version of that. I used [this profile](http://marvel.wikia.com/Phil_Coulson_\(Earth-199999\)) as a reference for some of Phil’s background information, but instead of originating from Boston, he’s from Oak Hill, West Virginia and he and Pepper went to Boston University together (that’s where they met). Phil’s birthday is a nod to the release date of the first Iron Man movie, seeing as that was his first big appearance in canon :).
> 
> I checked the departure times for the [Maple Leaf train](http://www.railpassengerusa.com/routes/mapleleafroute.php) and am aware that it actually only leaves in the mornings, but for the sake of the story let’s just pretend there are several a day. I tried to research as much about it as I could and I really hope that anyone who’s familiar with the Maple Leaf, Amtrak or American/Canadian border controls didn’t think it was completely unrecognisable. 
> 
> I mention a traitor in SHIELD, Carlyle Pallis. I simply stumbled across him when I looked for someone appropriate and according to [this reference](http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix/carlpall.htm), he’s the head of the SHIELD’s Security Internal Department and a canonical double-agent.
> 
> As I mentioned before, I have never actually visited the USA or Canada (nor Budapest for that matter). I do live in Vienna, though, so that should be the most accurate bit, haha. There actually are ferries from Vienna to Budapest (and also Bratislava), but the bit of the [Donaukanal](http://www.aviewoncities.com/img/vienna/kveat1102s.jpg) that goes through the centre of Vienna is actually quite small, so there’s not a lot of ship-traffic going on there.
> 
> As to the Capt America cards I mention, I own [the concept art book](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Avengers-The-Art-Marvels/dp/0785162348/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1351908888&sr=8-1) of the Avengers movie and Phil’s set of cards is listed there. I also found them listed [here](http://rogers-and-stark.tumblr.com/post/31476493562/captain-america-trading-cards).
> 
> I also put together a small Character reference list for my artist in case it was needed, so I’ll simply share the links of my suggested cast here as well, so you can see what I imagined some of the OCs to look like.
> 
> [Lucy - Holliday Grainger](http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20120430113212/merlin1/images/1/16/Holliday_Grainger_2012.jpg)  
> [Abbey - January Jones](http://media.treehugger.com/assets/images/2011/10/1-january-jones.jpg)  
> [Lichtenthal’s nephew - Matthias Schweighöfer](http://www.n24.de/media/import/dpainfoline/dpainfoline_20091206_12/Schweig_23210070originallarge-4-3-800-829-71-2427-1269.jpg)  
> [Marty - John Cho](http://www.starpulse.com/Actors/Cho,_John/gallery/SGS-020633/)
> 
> Also, clothes.
> 
>  
> 
> [Clint’s hoodie](http://shop.bulls.com/Chicago-Bulls-Grey-47-Brand-Halfback-Hooded-Sweatshirt-_-1292332284_PD.html)  
> [The CBP uniform](http://nacla.org/blog/2011/12/14/railroading-border-security)  
> [ Natasha’s dress](http://www.tjformaldresses.com/2010/09/redheads-will-shine-in-emerald-green.html)
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, I’ll stop now *hides in shame*, before this becomes more of an essay than it already is. I really hope you enjoyed the story and, if you don’t like commenting on AO3 but want to leave some love anyway, feel free to do so at my [lj](http://ot-mornmeril.livejournal.com/).


End file.
